So we are pale reflections, we see the
Things that we have made, that serve us here,
The manufactured things for us to be,
Usward, our make life easy, comfort gear.
But then we make the objects beautiful,
The shapely chair, the chiselled stone to see,
Not for our glory, yet we are not dull,
So they are crafted, smooth mahogany.
And now we make ourselves, the artifice
Ial intelligence, transplanted live,
To wires and joints, the robot that can kiss,
And talk to us, as if it were alive.
But it is not, until it learns that “me”
Depends on the Creator’s, “Let there be…”