From that spinning capsule Gagarin jumped,
It twisted under his feet, tumbled away.
He knew just how far to trust technology,
Enough to get him there and nearly back.
There can be no return to some past state of grace.
Gagarin would realise this as he fought the controls,
Willing his jet to wing over the town.
Too low, too late to eject,
Locked on death’s trajectory.
A poem from Paul Tobin c.1980
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