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Phanny, v. 3, issue 3, December 1944
Page 6
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6 P H A N N Y 6 ______________________________ F u t i l i t y Softly there, Centaurian, Decadent One-- Your Kind knows naught of Space! A 'Caster clicks--by grace Of Cosmic Law, a train Of atoms disassociate, A timeless warp, a strain-- Disembodied, insensate, You ripple the patterned grain Of nature. Thus you speed from place To place. Would you then trace The darkling course that Mankind chose to run? Softly, I say, Centaurian! Have you no fear? You stand where Giants stood! Here spawned that mighty Brood Who flung in high disdain Against the stars their fragile craft; Who pitted brawn and brain Against the haunted void; who laughed At Death, and made of Pain A friend; -- whose blood Became a scarlet flood Across the thickening Eons, year on year. - - - - - - - - You do not hear my words; I died Too long ago; my voice grows weak. How else? Ghosts may not speak Unto the Living, for Life must seek Its own reward in Life. Yet would I warn you; strife Brought only Death to all my Kind-- Must you, then, be so blind? What is it that you hope to find? Too much blood is shed-- Too many mothers grieve for dead Sons who for naught have bled-- Be warned! 'Twas thus my People died! --D.B. Thompson
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6 P H A N N Y 6 ______________________________ F u t i l i t y Softly there, Centaurian, Decadent One-- Your Kind knows naught of Space! A 'Caster clicks--by grace Of Cosmic Law, a train Of atoms disassociate, A timeless warp, a strain-- Disembodied, insensate, You ripple the patterned grain Of nature. Thus you speed from place To place. Would you then trace The darkling course that Mankind chose to run? Softly, I say, Centaurian! Have you no fear? You stand where Giants stood! Here spawned that mighty Brood Who flung in high disdain Against the stars their fragile craft; Who pitted brawn and brain Against the haunted void; who laughed At Death, and made of Pain A friend; -- whose blood Became a scarlet flood Across the thickening Eons, year on year. - - - - - - - - You do not hear my words; I died Too long ago; my voice grows weak. How else? Ghosts may not speak Unto the Living, for Life must seek Its own reward in Life. Yet would I warn you; strife Brought only Death to all my Kind-- Must you, then, be so blind? What is it that you hope to find? Too much blood is shed-- Too many mothers grieve for dead Sons who for naught have bled-- Be warned! 'Twas thus my People died! --D.B. Thompson
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