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A generation of astronauts, we wanted to explore the dark behind the inscrutable vague face. The silver semblance of a disk, like a worn coin, we thought, must have a flip side reality. We watched visiting spacemen land on the desert. They scanned the surface. They kicked the dust and affirmed the hypothesis: There is no life here. The moon is dead weight, dependent, a hardened sponge, illumined, but not warmed. Empty craters don't respond, the loss of oceans hurts. Did we expect another garden? We wanted to know And now we do. We walk the shores and look up. We still see A face of sorrow. It is the mystery of magnetism that befuddles us. Where is the phenomenal consistency? The yielding tides are sympathetic. What one would have the other would give. We watch the breakers roll. We await the sun, which must ignore the moon's dependency on earth and shine equally on them both.

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