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We will live in a home without walls, my people, whose windows
Are the open air, rooves of starlight, and, as atrium,
The setting sun; not glorious, rather
Ragged in the winter, no citadel
For summer's heat, and quiet as the roar
Of streaking bolts, though not so cozy
As the daybreak's grass. Wide wandering for our loves
(The Loves, whom every homestead needs); we'll sleep
But little, for sleep breeds ignorance and disgust --
What bodies we'll drag to our hearths, kin!, worn
In the seeds of perpetual time. Now clearly we have all
We need, since these are the cravings of empty life.