Pity this busy monster, manunkind,
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.
e.e. cummings
(from 1 x 1, Complete Poems 1913 - 62)