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Welcome to VastBeyond.com Unique space content with a personal touch. |
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 From Her AshesBy Jeff Federico Posted on February 10, 2003 For millennia myths were passed on about the land, the sea, the sky. For centuries, stories were told about the fury and the glory of the natural world. For decades, tales were told of beasts, of gods, of man. Now, a soaring creation not of the natural world is the theme of poetry. Poetry of motion, of accomplishment, of people, of peace. Poetry meant to inspire, yet which poses more questions than it answers. Why, we ask, did we lose Columbia? Columbia is lost, but her poetry lives on. Just decades ago, frightened planners warned a Soviet nation that Columbia and her kin could be positioned to rain down destruction on their lands. It is an ironic rain which drops technology, medicines, inspiration and peaceful cooperation. It is a miraculous vehicle that bridges gaps between peoples close on the brink of war. Columbia accomplished that, and now poetry is writ of her and her crew. As with poetry of old, though, her luster had been waning. We no longer thought her miraculous, we no longer marveled her feats. She was getting less sacred, more mundane. Over parts of our lands, lights obscured her glory; over our airwaves, news of war, of strife, of insignificant pursuits painted over the beautiful light streaming through our heavens. We used to look up in awe; now we reach up our hands in agony. Her poetry lives on, but she lays still. If only we were granted one more chance to show how unique a beacon she was, one more glance to set our minds free. She left us a message streaked through the sky to listen to our heritage, to feel the pangs which brought us to this awesome and significant ability. In her ashes a newborn phoenix, full of promise and vigor and vision, should arise. It will allow us once more to fulfill our promise to view in awe that bird of the heavens, that miracle of our times, that hope for the future. We are not our past, we are not our future--we are rather, our potential. We can either follow her simple message streaked through the sky or fall back to Earth contemptuous and afraid of flight. Will poetry be writ of ourselves and our vehicles of peace, or will we falter? We must not falter. We will march on; we must march on. Vessels like Columbia will be rebuilt. They must be rebuilt. We will keep building and soaring and looking up in awe at the beauty of poetry in motion, which we will create. We must create, we must move on. The stirring of Columbia's poetic motion, her infinite complexity, her glory, her crew, her ashes will drive us on. It must drive us on, as we gain strength from our heritage and progress in our promise to never forget her beauty. It is an ironic rain that brings peace, cooperation, and all forms of human achievement. Columbia created that rain for all lands. Now we must continue to be the rainmakers and have poetry written of us. |