The revolution that burst out the rose of wind in the sand,
And for which Anemone bled in the field
Is now led by grave wisdom
Filling our lungs with incense’s rotten fume …
Birds are alarmed by the hissing of the leaves
The mole broadens the strategy of the pit,
And announces today the birth of his (nightly) ninety-ninth party
While, from a thousand sheds, echoes Surat The Merciful.