They tell us it is so because it is so.

We are not satisfied; we hate to learn; we like better to build little stone houses.

We can build them as we please, and know the reason for them.
Other joys too we have incomparably greater then even the building of stone houses.
We are run through with a shudder of delight when in the red sand we come on one of those white wax flowers that lie between their two green leaves flat on the sand.

We hardly dare pick them, but we feel compelled to do so; and we smell and smell till the delight becomes almost pain.
Afterward we pull the green leaves softly into pieces to see the silk threads run across.
Beyond the kopje grow some pale-green, hairy-leaved bushes.

We are so small, they meet over our head, and we sit among them, and kiss them, and they love us back; it seems as though they were alive.
One day we sit there and look up at the blue sky, and down at our fat little knees; and suddenly it strikes us, Who are we?
This I, what is it?
We try to look in upon ourselves, and ourself beats back upon ourself.