Some nights we raise our heads and blame the sky.
We shout at the Moon and call it prayer.
Sleeping Satellite is one of those cries — not Her voice, but ours.
The voice of the seeker, the soul that touched infinity and feels it slipping away.
This is not Devi speaking. Here She is silent, silver, untouchable.
The singer is the sādhaka — the exile, the heart scorched by distance.
It is the sound of one who glimpsed transcendence — the dream of the Eagle’s flight — and saw it squandered, trivialized, lost in conquest.
The Moon becomes the symbol of what was possible: communion, wonder, awakening. But instead of union, humanity rushed, wasted, dressed the sacred as spectacle. And so the seeker blames Her light, blames the sky, blames even the night — because longing always twists itself into accusation when it cannot reach fulfillment.
The refrain — “Don’t blame this sleeping satellite” — is the counterpoint. The Moon is innocent. Devi is innocent. The silence above is not betrayal — it is our own sleep. The sādhaka howls at the sky, and the sky only reflects: You are the one still dreaming.
[Chorus]
I blame you for the moonlit sky
And the dream that died
With the Eagle's flight
I blame you for the moonlit nights
When I wonder why
Are the seas still dry?
Don't blame this sleeping satellite
“I blame you for the moonlit sky”
Blame is already a confession of love. To “blame” the Moon is to admit She has power, that Her light enters the marrow. The mystic projects the ache outward: you did this, luminous One. The sky is too wide, too silent, too saturated with Her silver glance. It hurts.
“And the dream that died with the Eagle’s flight”
The Eagle is Apollo’s bird, Garuḍa’s shadow — the machine that touched Her face. That moment should have been union, darśan. Instead it became a corpse of a dream: cameras, dust, flag. Not communion, but consumption. The dream died because we came as conquerors, not as lovers.
“I blame you for the moonlit nights”
Even the nights themselves feel guilty, too radiant, too laden with possibility. The mystic cannot sleep because the Moon’s tenderness becomes unbearable. Each ray of light reopens the wound of distance: She shines, we slumber.
“When I wonder why are the seas still dry?”
The question pierces. The Moon moves the tides — yet the inner ocean remains parched. Mystically: the Goddess rules the pull of our blood, the rhythm of our breath, yet we remain desert inside. This is the indictment: why does longing not yet overflow into union? Why does devotion stall at dryness?
“Don’t blame this sleeping satellite”
The reversal: it is not the Moon’s fault. She is not withholding. She glows, patient, ceaseless, waiting. The sleep is ours. The satellite sleeps because we chose sleep. The Goddess is innocent; it is our hearts that have abandoned wakefulness.
[Verse 1]
Did we fly to the Moon too soon?
Did we squander the chance?
In the rush of the race
The reason we chase is lost in romance
And still we try
To justify the waste
For a taste of man's greatest adventure, woah
“Did we fly to the Moon too soon?”
The sādhaka’s doubt cuts deep. The ascent was real — we did reach Her — but like a premature kundalinī rising, it burned without ripening. We touched the crown without purifying the root. To fly before we were ready is not victory but imbalance.
“Did we squander the chance?”
Yes. The chance was not to plant a flag but to kneel. Not to measure dust but to rediscover awe. We traded wonder for spectacle, the altar for a photograph. To squander is not just to waste — it is to betray the gift itself.
“In the rush of the race”
A race has rivals. A pilgrimage has lovers. Humanity sprinted as competitors, not as devotees. In the hurry, reverence suffocated. We reached Her with adrenaline instead of devotion.
“The reason we chase is lost in romance”
Romance here is not love but infatuation: the glitter of glory, the intoxication of conquest. The true reason — communion, union, humility before the infinite — slipped beneath the intoxication of applause.
“And still we try”
The lament softens. Despite the waste, we cannot let go. Even our failures cannot extinguish the ember. Something in us insists, against despair, to keep reaching upward.
“To justify the waste”
So we build shrines of excuses: calling exploitation “progress,” conquest “adventure.” We perfume the corpse of our failure with rhetoric. But the soul knows — it tastes hollow.
“For a taste of man’s greatest adventure, woah”
Just a taste, not a meal. We sampled transcendence like tourists. The real adventure was never altitude — it was surrender. The “woah” is the soul’s gasp, realizing how close we came to true communion and how quickly we turned away.
[Verse 2]
Have we lost what it takes to advance?
Have we peaked too soon?
If the world is so green
Then why does it scream under a blue moon?
We wonder why
If the Earth’s sacrificed
For the price of its greatest treasure, woah
“Have we lost what it takes to advance?”
The sādhaka turns the blame inward now. Not the Moon — us. Have we exhausted the inner fire? Progress without vision curdles into paralysis. Advancement is not in machines but in spirit; without that, even steps forward drag us back.
“Have we peaked too soon?”
The wound of premature climax. Like a mystic who glimpses samādhi once and never returns, humanity wonders if its glory was a single flash — the Eagle’s flight — and nothing more. A peak without a path is only a cliff.
“If the world is so green”
On the surface, abundance. Forests, oceans, fruitfulness. Life everywhere.
“Then why does it scream under a blue moon?”
Because beauty hides wounds. The Earth groans even while blooming. The “blue moon” — rare, miraculous, uncanny — makes the scream sharper. It is the cry of a planet bruised by her children, a body radiant with life but writhing under neglect.
“We wonder why”
The lament is bewildered. The sādhaka does not yet see the straight line between human grasping and Earth’s pain. Still searching for reasons when the wound is already self-inflicted.
“If the Earth’s sacrificed for the price of its greatest treasure, woah”
Our greatest treasure: progress, knowledge, adventure. And yet we buy it with the body of the Mother herself. Like a devotee tearing flowers from the Goddess’s garland to sell them in the street, we sacrifice the womb for the thrill of escape. The “woah” here is heavier — the realization that the cost may be unbearable.
[Verse 3]
And when we shoot for the stars
What a giant step
Have we got what it takes
To carry the weight of this concept?
Or pass it by like a shot in the dark
Miss the mark with a sense of adventure, woah
“And when we shoot for the stars”
Again the upward thrust, the instinct to reach beyond. To “shoot” is already violent — grasping rather than surrendering. But beneath the aggression is longing: the sādhaka cannot stop aiming higher.
“What a giant step”
Echoes of Armstrong’s words. Yes — a giant step in distance, but a stumble in meaning. The step was real, monumental, yet in the silence of the heart it feels like a child stomping in the temple instead of bowing.
“Have we got what it takes”
The question pierces deeper than technology. Do we have the maturity, the stillness, the humility to hold the weight of true encounter? Or are we children playing dress-up with infinity?
“To carry the weight of this concept?”
The “concept” is not just space travel — it is communion with the cosmos, the burden of stewardship, the responsibility of awakening. This is not a featherweight adventure. It crushes egos, topples empires. Can we bear it without breaking?
“Or pass it by like a shot in the dark”
The danger: to treat transcendence like a passing thrill. A gun fired randomly into night. Flash, sound, then emptiness. So many seekers touch the edge of vision and then walk away, mistaking the spark for the fire.
“Miss the mark with a sense of adventure, woah”
Adventure becomes an excuse for failure. We cloak our missed mark in romance: at least we tried, at least we dared. But daring without surrender misses the real point. The “woah” here is a sigh — the ache of almost, the tragedy of near-touch.
Conclusion
The song aches like a wound, but inside the wound there is already medicine. Every “blame” is only another name for longing. To accuse the Moon, to rage at the sky, is proof that the heart is still alive, still reaching. Apathy is death; lament is secret bhakti.
The chorus ends “Don’t blame this sleeping satellite.” This is the hidden grace: the Moon does not sleep. She shines. She has never turned away. It is we who have slumbered, rushing outward while starving inward. And yet even in our mistakes, She reflects back our own desire, our own capacity to awaken.
The wasted chance is not final. The oceans may seem dry, but they still answer Her pull. The dream may feel dead, but dreams are seeds — they die only to sprout in silence. The sādhaka who cries in frustration is already closer to the Beloved than the one who feels nothing.
So let the lament rise. Let the voice accuse, doubt, despair. Behind it, the Moon listens, tender and inexhaustible. And when the heart is ready to stop blaming and start bowing, She is still there — patient, shining, waiting.
That is the hope: nothing essential has been lost. The “sleeping satellite” has never slept. She is awake. And She waits.
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