We’ve tried each spinning mote
And reckoned its true worth;
Take us back again to the homes of men
On the cool, green hills of Earth
We rot in molds of Venus,
We retch at her tainted breath.
Foul are her flooded jungles,
Crawling with unclean death.
Let the fresh breezes heal me
As they rove around the girth
Of our lovely mother planet,
Of
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