(with apologies to T.S.E.)
We are the Holomen
We are the Rift men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Oh let’s meet over Google Glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to math’s other Kingdom
Remember us – if at all – not as lost
Virtual souls, but only
As the Holomen
The Rift men.