The Interne
Oh, the agony of having too much power!
In my passive palm are hundreds of lives.
Strange alchemy!—they drain my blood:
My heart becomes iron; my brain copper; my eyes silver; my lips brass.
Merely by twitching a supple finger, I twirl lives from me—strong-winged,
Or fluttering and broken.
They are my children, I am their mother and father.
I watch them live and die.