Upon a screen, a lunar face,
Where craters carve a shadowed space.
She counts the numbers, cold and stark,
Each one a scar, a whispered mark.

The Caloris Basin, vast and deep,
A cauldron’s wrath, a slumbering sleep.
Within its rim, a story told,
Of impacts old, and ages bold.

She traces lines, with fingers light,
Of ancient fires, in fading light.
The numbers gleam, a chilling sight,
Reflecting back, a fading might.

Each digit etched, a cosmic sigh,
Of dust and gas, beneath the sky.
She sees the void, the endless dark,
And feels the weight of every spark.

The Caloris, a celestial wound,
With numbers traced, on barren ground.
A silent tale, in shades of grey,
Where she, alone, observes the day.

No voice replies, no answer near,
Just echoes lost, and whispers clear.
The numbers rise, a chilling plea,
Of cosmic dust, eternally.