Today I feel on my tongue the bitternessof being. I feel the anguish enterthrough my feet. The day grows thinas a thread. Already the light is sticky porridge.All the pigs scream. The pigs? The pigsof din and racket, the machines stalkingthe streets, our overheated masters.It triumphs over the weary shellsof my eyelids, the itch of petroleum,the ay and oh of the great terrors.Will we go back, again, to the cave?The gates give way to a thousandhard little demons, groaning, pawing,whistling in this pentagram called “up-to-date.”The street rises just like a dancing snake,the bum, the pum, the kriiii! And here comesanguish, dressed like a crow, to pick overmy entrails. Again, in the silence, I’m nothingbut a pigeon in the prison of my blood.…