30 July 2012
Curled black hair falls around her face,
He looks back, ready for the race,
Great leathery wings spread wide,
Saddled dragons, ready for the ride,
Launch up to the stars in the night,
Every inch, beat gained in a fight,
He pulls out by a nose, a breath,
Now the strain that could end in death,
Long gone are the ground and clouds,
Up here no witnesses, no crowds,
Their prize looms nearer, closer,
Silver orb of rock, race soon to be over,
Wing beats quicken, reach to the moon,
Finally, a touch,
a winner, a rush,
Dragons in space,
what a flight,
What a race.
To The Moon • Opuss № I