But no.
Out, you beast.
Till he fell in a corner, palpitating, spent.
And there, a clot, he squatted and looked at me.
With sticking-out, bead-berry eyes, black,
And improper derisive ears,
And shut wings,
And brown, furry body.
Brown, nut-brown, fine fur!
But it might as well have been hair on a spider; thing
With long, black-paper ears.
So, a dilemma!
He squatted there like something unclean.
No, he must not squat, nor hang, obscene, in my room!
Yet nothing on earth will give him courage to pass the sweet fire of day.
What then?
Hit him and kill him and throw him away?
Nay,
I didn’t create him.
Let the God that created him be responsible for his death ...
Only, in the bright day, I will not have this clot in my room.
Let the God who is maker of bats watch with them in their unclean corners....
I admit a God in every crevice,
But not bats in my room;
Nor the God of bats, while the sun shines.
So out, out you brute!...
And he lunged, flight-heavy, away from me, sideways, a sghembo!
And round and round and round my room, a clot with wings,
Impure even in weariness.