These terrorists, with their set, dead eyes,
In which no spirit lives but death-fed lies,
They’re nothing human, but are something naught,
A double zero by a zero wrought.

These terrorists, each with dead, dull face,
A-yearning daily for a dead, lost place,
Each one’s a loser but in coward death,
Where he’s the winner of inhuman breath.

These terrorists, with their set, dead eyes
(All blank and bare—there’s nothing there),
Are ready for their death-filled paradise—
The virgin buzzing of innumerable flies.