A Rocket Named Babel

One day,

we’ll surge past the exosphere,

flying at 

two hundred ninety-nine million seven hundred ninety-two thousand four hundred fifty-


meters per second.

So fast, the stars look like angels.

One of the horsemen

will watch,

resting on the event horizons

and his face will blur 

as we pass him by.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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