Space ants, no light, no atmosphere, ersatz of everything, no longer human, dogs of war… In his sleep he remembers…
In the immensity of space, in the cruiser armed to the core, he remembers: a clear stream flowing from high above in the icy air of an alpine Spring, snow still powdering the valleys, and her smile, her lips in the thrall of happiness.
He remembers the glory of the shore in the Summer: the waves licking the golden sand, her body, tanned, naked, the beauty of Aphrodite.
He remembers the colours of Fall, the sweet scent of burning wood, the horses in the fields showing off their winter coat…
He remembers the dead of Winter, when he, with thousands of others like him, embarked on the spaceships launched to stop the Enemy… The long lines of volunteers, the rockets.
He remembers the war, the horror of war.
It is over now: they have triumphed. One out of one thousand is coming back. To Earth, to the Light, to the Seasons, to their long gone Loves.
For Earth is rotating, and Sol is burning, and they, the survivors, are now old men.
Image: courtesy The Classy Polaroid