Apollo 11
I was a student of logic
when the world stopped breathing—
July 20, 1969,
a footprint pressed into silver dust.
Neil Armstrong’s voice crackled,
“one small step…”
and yet, my mind whispered—
was it the Moon,
or a Hollywood stage?
Fifty–six years have burned away,
half a century of miracles and machines.
We send probes beyond Pluto,
yet have not returned
to that pale frontier
just 384,400 kilometers away.
We dive to the edge of oceans,
but never to their blackest trench.
We speak of radiation belts,
Van Allen’s invisible fire—
how did fragile bodies
slip through alive,
wrapped only in cloth and hope?
Pride is America’s anthem.
If the flag had truly bitten lunar soil,
would it not have marched again—
and again—
until a fortress crowned the Moon?
They say budgets broke the dream.
But tell me—
what nation spares the stars
while spilling trillions on war?
The camera rolls.
The world applauds.
The truth drifts somewhere
between silence and space.
Copyright © Chanda Katonga | Year Posted 2025
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