On Some Foreign, Martian Moon

Dirt and mustard in the air,
A playground of twisted iron, concrete crumbles;
The sky breathes with blood and tears, dusty hail,
Even the pock-marked ground is grey:
The surface of some foreign moon not barren,
But blossoming with barbed growths and
Sprouting tentacles of thorny wire,
Like boils on the faces of unmasked men.
What planet have we come to?
With its scintillating rain of shrapnel
And seeds of all size falling, falling...
Most explode upon their landings but,
When the rains come, will they grow?
Or were they lost in those deafening, godly bursts?
This moon is full of strange creatures:
Masked men, insect-eyed forsaken masses
Dancing and flailing mine-sweeps amidst
Castles of turrets, magicians' wands flaming
Rolling out a swept carpet for the men-
Men who are visitors or inhabitants
Of this strange, un-worldly moon.

Granny told me Mars is red, blood-bathed
Because the Martians are very violent;
But, if all worlds are grey and lifeless shells,
I think Mars is covered in poppies.

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