it floats, or flies, micrometeor scarred
encrusted with ice, out between the stars
no life within or without for parsecs around
millennium past since it heard any sounds
a silent tribute to a long gone race
but it does not know, light years in space
destined to continue at its present speed
not a fraction of c, but that's all it needs
it slowly leaves the past behind
carrying a plaque for alien minds
the last record of what its makers were
on a desolate space probe, Voyager
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