The full text of what is said and shown.

A blue-violet bladder, motionless on wet sand

The Portuguese man o' war looks dead

It still stings

The trap is already loaded

Along its tentacles, each cell is a cocked spring: a barbed thread coiled tight

One hundred and fifty bars of pressure, measured in a freshwater cousin

No command fires it

Touch alone triggers the shot, and each cell decides on its own

As long as the mechanism stays intact and moist, being stranded disarms nothing

A man o' war is not a jellyfish: a colony of fused individuals, each with a task

Forty stings in one day on the Aquitaine coast in 2008

Even beached, it stays an army

Death cannot disarm what never needed to be alive