Do not go to Enuran.
There, the sand has a voice,
The rocks are a congress.
Lava speaks to you, rolling
Its weary tongue and
Bending the light around
The details of its angular,
Unkempt meanings. You cannot
Make sense there;
There is no way to succeed
Or surrender, no discoveries
To make, no discourse
To give and take.
You mean nothing
To the Enuranians.
They grind year after year,
Sedimentary, metamorphic, igneous,
And make into marble
Things we have no need
To know. Sometimes
Sentience to another sentience
Should be unaware.
Do not think of them.
They love our excesses without
Loving us. I will not go again.
But, if I were to do so,
I would bring a collection
Of common stones, a cup
Of dry soil: then drop them
From a low orbit,
And see if the Enuranians find
In such some laudably held purpose,
An intimation of affection for the similar,
Then harden into a benign beginning,
A hardly soiled musical communication.
We could at least listen.
