Who Dreams Of A Son, Save One,

No Poetic Phantasy But A Biological Reality, A Fact: I Am An Entity Like Bird, Insect, Plant Or Sea-plant Cell; I Live; I Am Alive.

O Ruthless, Perilous, Imperious Hate, You Can Not Thwart The Promptings Of My Soul.

War Is A Fevered God Who Takes Alike Maiden And King And Clod.

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.

I Had Drawn Away Into The Salt, Myself, A Shell Emptied Of Life.