Interstellar

Interstellar

In the dark heart of the night, a silver trail unfurls –
the line of a spacecraft, a silver sweep of dream.
The sky is a wide, blue‑soul canvas, a vast, waking whirl,
where Polaris whispers, and the cosmos takes the scene.

Through interstellar lanes a plume of stardust sails,
its engines humming like an old‑world riverdeep,
the warp‑drive humming, a quiet vow to go beyond our shells,
to cross the light‑year gulf and find new truths asleep.

Britons once gazed upon the Icarus, the Apollo flight,
now they chart constellations with the spirit of the Thames.
They dream of interstellar ports where stars become the light,
where the night may be a green‑planet, and not merely a lamps.

There is no sky‑blue in our northern climates, only blackness,
but still we mine the satellites, the science that drifts.
The Interstellar Mission, a daring manuscript,
will map the galaxy, stitch the cosmos, till physics gives its gift.

So raise high the voice of Roald’s “Heart of Gold”,
the Rick and company. The world will hear the cry:
"Interstellar, what we find beyond will never be the same,"
and all of us will know that space is the next great choice.

From the science and the art that blossomed BRAF to Astra,
From Cambridge to Jodrell, from Manchester to Roath,
we will slip into the corridor of the universal breath,
ignite the engines – interstellar.