At the end the dawn...
Go away, Isaid, with your mug of copper, your mug of a pig, go away. I hate the flunkeys of order and the beetles of hope. Go away, you evil chaem, little punk of a monk. Then I turned towards heavens lost to him and his own kind, heavens more calm than the faceof a woman who lies, and there, lulled by the effluvia of a woman who lies, and there, lulled by the effluvia of endless thoughts, I fed the wind, I untied the monsters and I heard rise from the other bank of disaster, a river of turtle-doves and the clovers of the savanna I still carry deep inside of me at inverse depth of the twentieth floor of the most insolent houses and as guard against the putrefying power of ambient twilights, surveyed day and night by a cursed poxy sun.
Retourn to my Native Land.
