In Martian fields of red blown dust and rock,
there lies a Phoenix bird, t'was neither hen nor cock,
but metal, cold and lifeless, now it cannot fly,
with the fading of a distant sun it's time for it to die.
The song it sang through Martian summer days
through black and empty space where radiation plays
was heard by men who made the bird by hand
then turned to wonderous pictures of that distant Martian land.
The Phoenix is dead, and will not rise again in flame.
The Phoenix is dead, and though it dies alone there is no shame.
The Phoenix is dead, cold on martian soil it lays to rest.
The Phoenix is dead, of human will it demonstrates the best.