Ray Bradbury

Where Robot Mice And Robot Men Run Round In Robot Towns


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in seashell ear

      Now fading to a sigh, His last words send you in the world:

      “Not mother, father, grandfather are you.

      Be not another. Be the self I signed you in your blood.

      I swarm your flesh with you. Seek that.

      And, finding, be what no one else can be.

      I leave you gifts of Fate most secret; find no other’s Fate,

      For if you do, no grave is deep enough for your despair

      No country far enough to hide your loss.

      I circumnavigate each cell in you

      Your merest molecule is right and true.

      Look there for destinies indelible and fine

      And rare.

      Ten thousand futures share your blood each instant;

      Each drop of blood a cloned electric twin of you.

      In merest wound on hand read replicas of what I planned and knew

      Before your birth, then hid it in your heart.

      No part of you that does not snug and hold and hide

      The self that you will be if faith abide.

      What you do is thee. For that I gave you birth.

      Be that. So be the only you that’s truly you on Earth.”

      Dear Hopkins. Gentle Manley. Rare Gerard. Fine name.

      What we do is us. Because of you. For that we came.

      Though Queen be gone, the drones come back to hives;

      I am the residue of all my daughters’ lives.

      I keep their old loves here, I am the friend

      Of all the lost, the sad, discarded, gone, made end.

      Their husbands are now mine, their lovers keep

      In touch with me, they telephone to weep

      On loves that, soon as lost, now are my kin.

      Somehow the old sins, shunted off, wind up my sin.

      I take those loves to lunch. I buy them wine;

      Although these boys-grown-men were never mine.

      What is this thing in me which, dumb, demands

      The keeping up of face, outstretch of hands?

      Why must I tend their graveyard with chill stones,

      Why say hello to those young bags of bones?

      Those scuttled marriages gone sour or dead

      Whose ruin runs my blood and cramps my head—

      Why should I dine this mortuary gang,

      Why not pay out Time’s rope and let them hang?

      Because, because, well now, again because—

      Mayhap I drown in male’s dread menopause,

      And tend to see my face in these I dine

      To drink too much of sad lust’s mortal wine.

      Oh, women often cry they were sore used

      But these boy/men were much the same abused;

      If men shunt off the fainter sex with guile

      Why, women, daggerless, slay with a smile.

      What do these lovers hope to gain from me?

      An echo of her flesh now found at tea,

      The sounding of her voice but dimly heard

      Her beauty ricocheted and drowned, absurd

      In maze of old genetics yet there kept,

      Some wakening of love that now is slept?

      An echo of her voice in some mere phrase,

      A flicker of her glance in old beast’s gaze?

      They come to find the lamb in lion’s paws,

      But something in my laugh now gives them cause

      To order more and more and deeply drink,

      Though Lovely’s not my name, I clearly think.

      Ah, well, to stand for her is not a shame,

      And if the echo pleases them, what blame?

      Years back I saw an old love’s sire one day,

      And round about his smile I saw the fey

      Sad, far, lost echoing of one mad year

      Which ravened me to frenzies and wild fear.

      So if a father’s teeth can cage a cat,

      Why here behind my eyes, beneath my hat,

      A girl before her time waits to commence—

      Young men, I have no heart to cry: Go hence!

      So stay awhile and hear her voice in me;

      But, please, no tears, no funeral salt at tea!

      Thrown out of Eden

      Now we headlong humans

      Sinners sinned against

      Return.

      Tossed from the central sun

      We with our own concentric fires

      Blaze and burn.

      Once at the hub of wakening

      And vast starwheel,

      For centuries long-lost, and made to feel

      Unwanted, orphaned, mindless,

      Driven forth to grassless gardens,

      Dead and desert sea,

      We were shut out by comet grooms like Kepler

      Galileo Galilei

      Whose short-sight probing light-years

      Upped and said:

      The Hub’s not here!

      So shot man through the head

      And worse, each starblind prophet killed a part,

      Snugged shut our souls,

      Chopped short our reach,

      Entombed our living heart.

      But now we bastard sons of time

      Pronounce ourselves anew

      And strike fire-hammer blows

      To change tomorrow’s clime, its meteor snows.

      Our rocket selfhood grows

      To give dull facts a shake, break data down

      To climb the Empire State and thundercry the town;

      But more! reach up and strike

      And claim from Heaven

      The Garden we were shunted from,

      For now, space-driven

      We fit, fix, force and fuse,

      Re-hub the systems vast

      Respoke starwheel