Matins
Poem - by F. J. Bergmann
Waking from ice, without dreams, without night:
just the endless lights, and warm machines humming,
one long absence in something like sleep, only a residue
on my tongue telling me we may have gone far, further,
almost forever. In the atmosphere, a sharp tang indicates
an end to the journey, to the eternal day. A strange sun
blazes through the viewports; from somewhere, a scent
like mayflowers back on Earth, the taste of salt, a sound
of waves breaking. Outside the hull, shadows are moving
just beyond my sight. Only a few hours before we all rise
from cold, recover from slow silence, disembark, dazzled,
into unknown morning, whispering something like a prayer.