Their footless dance
Is of the beautiful liability of their nature.
Their eyes are round, boldly convex, bright as a jewel,
And merciless. They do not know
Compassion, and if they did,
We should not be worthy of it. They fly
In air that glitters like fluent crystal
And is hard as perfectly transparent iron, they cleave it
With no effort. They cry
In a tongue multitudinous, often like music.
He slew them, at surprising distances, with his gun.
Over a body held in his hand, his head was bowed low,
But not in grief.
He put them where they are, and there we see them:
in our imagination.
What is love?
Our name for it is knowledge.