duminică, 26 aprilie 2009

e.e.cummings : pity this busy monster, mankind

pity this busy monster, mankind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
- electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made

is not a world of born - pity poor flesh
and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this

fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if - listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go

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