Man is no marionette,
though he binds himself in string,
it seems this web is made of metal,
for it is difficult to cut,
his scissors lack an edge,
and his sharpening stone is so neat,
not a nick,
no particle out of place.
He cannot cast stones,
for granite is precious,
and his walls are made of glass,
man would be formidable if he were not a coward,
if only he knew which stones to throw,
selective regression perhaps?
At the least he might cut his cords,
with broken glass scattered at his feet.

Progress is not without sacrifice,
just as muscles tear with growth,
so I say do it,
steal the wild branch from the dove,
graft it to the tree,
for man is one half god,
and one half beast.