Whatever creation is;

There’s a glow-worm, embedded in each head.
Awaking men; at the entrance of the Spithead:
It opens-up southward stretching them eastward...
They themselves are not sea walls or driftwood...

Drowned, walled within the cages of some mutiny.
When a mutiny calls for them; there is no hominy,
That can sucker the ravages of an empty hunger.
Be they galley-slaves with him whose no-flogger!

Be they the deserts castaway, amidst their dunes.
Be they forever a thought nought else importunes!
Be they that starry-abode that no-more be shrunk...
Than a moth-lit-thirst; can unquenched, be drunk...

When nearer lighthouse; a polestar shines above!
Whatever creation is; it shall imbue them with love.