It could have been Mars or the lonely, barren moon,

That harsh, lunar-like landscape with nary a shrub nor dune.

Haphazard tents looked like those of refugees,

Driven from homelands they shall never again see.

Will we colonise Mars much in this manner,

Chancing interstellar unknowns, instead of heeding terrestrial planners?

Will we spend our days extracting water from substrate and stones,

While losing the crucial density of our blood and our bones?

The prospect of laborious life on Mars is met with no resistance;

We’re too willing to abandon a home designed for our freedom and very existence.

Though man's pioneeristic aspect is quite impressive,

I wonder sometimes if it isn’t actually regressive.

Our ego and imagination for astounding, superhuman feat,

May just lead to our ignoble and ignominious defeat.

Yes, bleak was my thought, gazing upon the forlorn desert plain;

That I shall miss fauna and flora -- all life birthed by oceans and rain.

I would rather die here than struggle there,

Still trying to save something beyond our repair.

At least there is sufficient air

And some semblance of duty, belongingness, and care.

Even in the dark, infinite ether of outer space,

We must trust in the importance of purpose, time and place.

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*I wrote this poem in 2018, struck as I stared at the desert plain.