“Most of man’s ills come from his inability to sit quietly in a room.” Blaise Pascal.
But Blaise, your countrymen ignored you.
Look, look at the balloon.
That was the beginning,
man getting above himself.
Balloon, bi-plane,
Channel hops.
Aces high, slaughter figures rising.
And a second time, dog fights, night raids,
Dresden demolished, the East End flattened.
But all quite neatly finished
In a distant land,
the quiet tea ceremony shattered
with some new equipment.
And still the restlessness.
How can a room
contain this flight,
this longing for the stars?
Space, the moon. The moon?
He's on his way to Mars!
Blaise, you are alone
In that quiet room.
Man has been chasing other worlds,
but soon enough, surely soon enough?
He will return to Earth,
his neglected home -
It needs his cherishing..
