by Ankur Shrivastava
It wasn’t that your beauty was lost on me
though you were full of craters, and
bubble-wrapped astronauts were diligently scarring you
with angry fire-engines and cold-hearted rovers.
Nor had your radiant aura diminished
when an obscure telescope-yielding scientist
theorized that you were 200 million years too young,
yet perhaps well past your cosmic prime.
Your warmth was intact even when
they found steely ice dispersed on your poles.
And I hadn’t deemed you lifeless
despite them unceremoniously dropping you
for seven hundred and six strangers.
In the end it was merely the discipline,
the monotony of traversing a lonely elliptical orbit
for eons. Your idyllic, single-faced utopia,
unaware of the dark side, was simply
a disconcerting mirror.