Christmas 2010
by Timothy Sandefur
We didn’t reach Jupiter this year, Arthur Clarke.
Like children at night, we still fear the dark,
And lend the day’s sun to credit the magic
Of fakirs in rags and spinning fanatics
Who urge us extinguish the curious spark.
Yet I assure you, my dear George Orwell,
That we also don’t live in your prophesied hell.
Though some channel fear through false-fronted words,
Others reach out, and if now they’re unheard,
We’ve seen them before pierce apathy’s spell
And shatter the bonds of the earth and the state.
Each day we meet at Janus’s gate,
Some wearing chains, some cannot read,
Some stay afraid, but others are freed.
And the best of us step through to plot their own fate.
