There is a little insect you’ve never seen, of chitin bright and emerald green, who lives in the heart of volcanoes. It grows from merely larval state, awash in magma glowing, swimming ’tween basalts flowing, and dines on carbon crystals, sipping silica icicles. It rises from an egg-case laid deep in the mantle, drifting on tongues of plasma-less flame, soaring on plumes of stone where solidness has no claim, and cocoons itself on the back of a cinder.
The cocoon does cool a little bit, and the larvum liquifies, and hibernates while the mountain sleeps. This insect might be mistaken for pumice, but this is not its demise, for whe