Lay out this creature on the optic disk, Lay bare the seat of generation The organs where the new lives lie and grow, Where the eggs take their form. She is no King But a vast Mother, on whose monstrous flanks Climb smaller sisters, hurrying to tend Her progeny, to help with her travail, Carry her nectar and give up their lives If needs be, to save hers, for she is Queen, The necessary Centre of the Brood.
