Skyship rapidly outward bound, equipped with all you need to ponder the manifold objects there, for a day in your vast future have you taken on a Douglas fir? Skyship radioing back, photographing planets blazing the track with fires to become new planets, have you time from reports to trim? Does a light open from a box of shining lights, old and loved, not broken? Skyship, as you glide-slide along those million million heavenly bodies strung through swift years, do your nuclear pulses quicken to a birth? Is that shining above the stars of space the Star of earth?