Out of the sun came the flaming silver needles.

Landing in amongst the fragile bone-chess cities, red sand kicked up hard into quiet pale blue skies, was a ship from the third planet.

The men inside, grizzled and fuzzy-faced, looked out the portholes and exclaimed each in turn, “Bradbury was right!”

The dry seabeds rolled on in pink and tan salts and where once were mighty canals, now flowed flaccid streams of sad brown water.

From the far off hills a golden-eyed Martian child watched, silent.

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“Who wants to see the Future, who ever does? A man can face the Past, but to think- the pillars crumbled, you say? And the sea empty, and the canals dry, and the maidens dead, and the flowers withered?” -Ray Bradbury, The Martian Chronicles