To Mars we fled, aboard this sterile ship,
In search of life, four pilgrims, here we stand.
The air is full of dust, a dark brown sand
Stirred up in rage by winds that round us whip.
No life we found, we made a barren trip,
So little water, ‘tis a desert land.
Cold Mars, the God of War, holds in his hand
The key to life: He keeps his blood-red grip.

    And so we planted grass, beside a stream
Run dry, and waited for the seeds to grow,
We watched for days, no single cloud was seen.
Until the rain fell rashly, from a dream,
Now shoots spring up towards the sun's dull glow:
Against this planet's red, a patch of green.

                                      1976