by Nick Gisburne
Veneers of slurry cover the machine
Contaminated, crusted with disease
From pools of curdled filth, an oily sheen
Is blown across the body by the breeze
We circle, twice, in awe, above the beast
A sickening reminder of the past
An aberration, neutralised, deceased
We thrill to find a specimen so vast
Although it fell a century ago
It chills the blood with memory, with fear
Alive, if we encountered it, we know
Our futures would be frighteningly clear
We strip the wreck, a tool of genocide
Reminded how a thousand planets died
