The mass migrants to Mars
stood poised to take their first step.
The Red Planet crimsoned further
by the blood of scientists who
realised the vision of a
musky monied man odoured
with fame, made into godhead.
Out of deep freeze, led by the god
who saved them, stood more monied men.
They had left a planet in turmoil.
A methane-filled viral sun burnt with heat.
I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe —
became the norm. The cry of those
condemned to die in the coils of
poisoned air or floods that ate
the land. No place left to stand.
Reddened by sunsets on rising seas,
humans treaded water till deadened —
leadened by weight they sunk into
an Ophelia like stupor, the kiss of death.
Lands that glowed with heat turned aflame
with dry contention. Hate scorched the last man.
The gods left before the last human,
before the floods; before the lands sunk;
before the kangaroos were too hard to chew;
before Liberty grew old and crumbled.
The gods, deathless, went into
cryogenic sleep. They took off while
Hunger wept pangs of putrid flesh;
while, raped, Europa fled, unclaimed by
the gods; while cows ruled, worshipped
and cherished by bodyguards
that killed and women bloodied. Tongueless,
Eve died, cremated at the dead of night.
They left. The gods zoomed among the stars
frozen from a cryogenic past. They waited
asleep till the Red Planet turned green.
The scientists, now unseen buried in Mars
or floating lifeless in space debris,
populated with hope, with children who only
hear of Earth — now no more — deceased.
They wait — to roll out a red welcome to the
New gods woken from cryogenic sleep.
The mass monied migrants to Mars
stood poised to take their first step.
Will the children again worship these
New gods from outer space?
New religion? New race?
New civilisation.
*This poem is inspired by Elon Musk’s vision for the future as spelt out clearly in this CNN report.
Mitali Chakravarty is a writer and the editor of Borderless Journal.
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