“I can’t help feeling, darling, that these are matters
to be taken up under better skies
than this, across which the grossest things are scattered –
like a Pollock on which the paint has been splattered.
Those pricks of light to me seem just like flies.
That’s it! Like flies on a cavernous, moonlit turd.
Or like bumblebees choking on a giant curd.
What you and they call Being I despise!”
“Come on, dear – that’s enough of that. Now just calm down.
It’s also a mirror in which I can see you frown.
Why knock what we created for their eyes?
I’m not defending them, you know, but they need us.
They’re our children. So why let them come between us?
What we call merely human, they call wise.
One more tantrum like that and they’re bound to flee us.”
[Previous: Before the Gunrest]
[Next: Wotan or Zeus in One of His]