In their breasts Their Turkish brides Are no more than cold ashes. They lie on old sofas, Sunk in their depression, And if a stair creaks They wonder, Whether the wooden staircase Is being climbed by the doctor or death. The first robot is rectangular. The stone in his hand is a cube. And a cube is a cube from time immemorial and all that is, is a cube.
Robots are on the march.
The second robot is round. The stone in his hand is a sphere. And all that is, is a sphere. Robots are on the march. The stone in the sky, the stone on earth has no choice.