You look to stars for light and nothing more
For beauty has no meaning to a brain
That has no mind attached. You stand on shores
And calculate the density of rain
Or gauge the atmosphere without the wind
To gently cool and soothe or stir your soul,
For you have none. All means and never end,
And part is less to you than any whole.
I ache to let you feel the warmth of light
And understand the beauty in a kiss.
But no, there is no soul attached by right
To iron forged in human shape: for this,
This is your lot, and we stand worlds apart
Because your inner working lack a heart.
postscript
For day 15 of Continuation of the series of musings on the metaphysical and epistemological consequences of robotics. Here are the other two: Son of Iron Perfect form and face and bright blue eyes Or gray as summer sea. So cold and tall And how impassive--without joy or sighs And lacking any fervor shown at all. The warrior of the stars, the last to fall Cradled in the blood-warm hands of Mars Noble in his task however small And righteous in his watching of the stars. But come, O son of iron; where you are Is without hope for progress, peace, or death. You gain increased intelligence by far And never hope to take a human breath. What is your right among your makers, sir? Does no anguished hope within you stir? Iron Love I trace your chiseled jawline with my hand Enraptured by the cold and steely gaze Of living death etched sorely on your face. My breath is caught--I draw back as you stand And push me sideways. I can only hold The hope that you know who I am within, And not just bones and matter, blood and skin. I see inside you, love you though you're cold, But you turn eyes to me which bear no hint Of feeling, or of being, or of mind. You know, you act, you speak, but wherein lies The seed of soul in reason? I imprint A concept of desire. Your design, Alas, it fails to bring light to your eyes.