开云体育

For the members of the H-line group....The Last Transmission

Andrew Thornett All Messages By This Member #1962 开云体育 The Last Transmission Andrew Thornett For the members of the BAA H-line group They sit in sheds with wires and screens, Tracking signals, chasing dreams. Not for aliens, not for fun— Just mapping gas ‘round a dying sun. Dishes wobble, creak, and groan, Old and rusted, overgrown. Neighbours whisper, eyes askance— "They haven't moved in months, perchance?" At 1420 megahertz, The cosmos hums, the signal spurts. A spectral line so cold, so thin, Like ghostly whispers creeping in. Through hiss and pop, through static's moan, They plot the Galaxy—starved, alone. A labour born of love and terrible dread, For stars will die, but the dish needs to be fed. One by one, they drop like flies, Under silent, watchful and reproachful skies. No one comes, no one calls, Just a dish that listens… and never falls. Years will pass, the metal might rust, J2000 charts dissolve to cosmic dust. But still: The Milky Way drifts by, Above the graves of those who tried. A little grim, but fittingly poetic for the relentless, lonely pursuit of the universe!
John Thain All Messages By This Member #1964 Andy Brilliant!? Regards John UKRAA Trustee () toggle quoted message Show quoted text On Wed, 2 Apr 2025 at 23:14, Andrew Thornett via <andrew=[email protected]> wrote: The Last Transmission Andrew Thornett For the members of the BAA H-line group They sit in sheds with wires and screens, Tracking signals, chasing dreams. Not for aliens, not for fun— Just mapping gas ‘round a dying sun. Dishes wobble, creak, and groan, Old and rusted, overgrown. Neighbours whisper, eyes askance— "They haven't moved in months, perchance?" At 1420 megahertz, The cosmos hums, the signal spurts. A spectral line so cold, so thin, Like ghostly whispers creeping in. Through hiss and pop, through static's moan, They plot the Galaxy—starved, alone. A labour born of love and terrible dread, For stars will die, but the dish needs to be fed. One by one, they drop like flies, Under silent, watchful and reproachful skies. No one comes, no one calls, Just a dish that listens… and never falls. Years will pass, the metal might rust, J2000 charts dissolve to cosmic dust. But still: The Milky Way drifts by, Above the graves of those who tried. A little grim, but fittingly poetic for the relentless, lonely pursuit of the universe!

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