Say this city has ten million souls,
Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:
Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us.

Once we had a country and we thought it fair,
Look in the atlas and you'll find it there:
We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.

In the village churchyard there grows an old yew,
Every spring it blossoms anew:
Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that.

The consul banged the table and said,
"If you've got no passport you're officially dead":
But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.

Went to a committee; they offered me a chair;
Asked me politely to return next year:
But where shall we go to-day, my dear, but where shall we go to-day?

Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said;
"If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread":
He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me.

Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky;
It was ****** over Europe, saying, "They must die":
O we were in his mind, my dear, O we were in his mind.

Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin,
Saw a door opened and a cat let in:
But they weren't German Jews, my dear, but they weren't German Jews.

Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay,
Saw the fish swimming as if they were free:
Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.

Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees;
They had no politicians and sang at their ease:
They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race.

Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors,
A thousand windows and a thousand doors:
Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.

Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;
Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro:
Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.

in that, beyond good and evil, there's on femininity and masculinity; we already know of st. thomas' account about how the masculine needs to made into feminine and vice verse... no wonder such teachings in the undercurrent of our life, that we went beyond this and started doing likewise in the framework of good and evil; but there's hardly a dualism within the four 90º, while the tetragrammaton opens the gates to geometric phoneticism, which does not work in the hebrew depiction of the tetragrammaton, only in latin, because in latin one will not see a vision but reveal, having heard but not seen, and when inserting a thought into an experience: a satanism that said: i'll be satan and change this choir into moving stars and send a telegram to the aliens! should i see man loose all dignity in warring with himself that ended in napoleonic trust for man and man on the battlefield - because what she offered most men can get, and what i was offered only one among the billions, and in history about three, get.

so while some attempts at a sensual proof were not
granted, only one was, through moses,
and obviously through elijah - as sensual proofs
go, the proof of moses had to be fused with
a cognitive remainder, since, given the fact
that the torah was written by the supreme outsider,
the book depicting elijah was written by a true insider,
yet the cognitive realm which these two operated in
is a pure mystery, given the fact that sensually,
the staged rifts were short lived, yet too long lived
cognitively, having to argue, cite and disagree with
moses, who dragged the most sensual distortion
into the cognitive realm.

so as cognitive proof-arguments go, they are simply that,
more cognitive proofs lead to more argumentation,
but little sensuality, such that the paid need for
theological argumentation that leads to no sensual
precipitation enters the realm of holocausts,
whereby idle and vain cognitive proofs have no sensual
******, only more "thinking;" paid thinking.
and when the sensual proof for the non-existence of god
appears, like the holocaust, all those accumulative
"proofs" from the cognitive realm... end up like midgets...
and everyone's awe taken aback, because so much
cognition was left undisturbed, that the senses are prompted
for a disaster! why would i want cognitive argumentation
if i cannot seek and find a sensual guarantee?
where's the sensual ******, if cognitive argumentation
climaxed to the fine tuned 1 + 1 logic is a sensual anticlimax?!

the odd thing is walking the neighbourhood with beer and hand
waiting for the indian heatwave, but as i sooner realised,
this type of drinking is no good - the shelter of the garden
is where i find laughter - on the street making miles
i find anger - and as i noticed a day prior:
beer in hand, cigarette burning the lung forests,
watching a clear night sky, seeing a boeing boast
engine ***** high up to sound like i drone - that
universe forgets i can claim a nighttime hemisphere of sounds
with that boeing, even though the daytime skyblue is blinded
by a dilated pupil,i can feed that massive vacuum
of emptiness and keyhole glitter a mishap and a chance
to study less celestial geometry to endeavour out of this
haven.

prompts a maxim this verse does:
no one around me in my shape or walk -
tall enough to reach the sky, but
dumb like a thirteen day old butterfly, still flirting with the flutter.
***** you were born as the caterpillar old man,
now you're a fever of beauty in colour,
and only for two weeks, or even less if nabokov is about.

well, crescendo!
when simon magus stood with st. peter at nero's throne
the stage was like the two women with solomon about to cut a baby in half.
it was scened within the following framework of details:
st. peter started to sing bon jovi's 'lay your hands on me,'
with alternative lyrics - let me lay my hands on you
with the power of the holy spirit.
nero replied: lay your own hand on yourself, get away from
me you ***** *******, that holy spirit of yours, the one
you said is a personality but really isn't is just another form of:
celestial chaining; magus simon, what about you?
so simon magus came up and said:
i'll whiff you a smokey vision of caligula learning
of philosophy as read by his talking horse *incitatus.

i wish for praise here on originality, but i heard of this one,
the talking horse of caligula by the one and only zbyszek herbert,
and in quick translation the poem reads -

*says caligula:

from all the citizens of rome
i loved only one
incitasus - a horse

when he entered the senate
the unblemished toga of his fur
glistened immaculately among hemmed with purple cowardly
                                                        ­                           murderers.

incitatus was full of virtuous bounties
he never spoke over me or spoke in general
a stoic nature
i think that at night in the stables he read philosophers

i loved him to such an extent that one day i decided to
                                                              ­                   crucify him
but his noble anatomy countered such a feat

he bosomed the position of consul with dignified apathy
he held power to the helm with a cupful of water
spilling none in a drunk waiter's swagger,
meaning he used none of it with the entitlement

it was impossible to make him bow to long lasting bonds of love
with mt second wife caesonia
alas no lineage of future caesars arose - centaurs

that's why rome crumbled

i decided to nominate him a god
but on the ninth day before the calendar days of february
cherea cornelius sabinus and other fools obstructed these godly intentions

with calm he received the message of my death

thrown out from the palace and sentenced to exile

he accepted the burden with dignity

he died heirless
butchered by a thick-skinned butcher from the township of anzio

of the posthumous fates of his meat
taticus is silent with regards to.

To Ezra Pound

These are the names of the companies that have made
        money from this war
nineteenhundredsixtyeight  Annodomini  fourthousand
        eighty Hebraic
These are the Corporations who have profited by merchan-
        dising skinburning phosphorous or shells fragmented
        to thousands of fleshpiercing needles
and here listed money millions gained by each combine for
        manufacture
and here are gains numbered, index'd swelling a decade, set
        in order,
here named the Fathers in office in these industries, tele-
        phones directing finance,
names of directors, makers of fates, and the names of the
        stockholders of these destined Aggregates,
and here are the names of their ambassadors to the Capital,
        representatives to legislature, those who sit drinking
        in hotel lobbies to persuade,
and separate listed, those who drop Amphetamine with
        military, gossip, argue, and persuade
suggesting policy naming language proposing strategy, this
        done for fee as ambassadors to Pentagon, consul-
        tants to military, paid by their industry:
and these are the names of the generals & captains mili-
        tary, who know thus work for war goods manufactur-
        ers;
and above these, listed, the names of the banks, combines,
        investment trusts that control these industries:
and these are the names of the newspapers owned by these
        banks
and these are the names of the airstations owned by these
        combines;
and these are the numbers of thousands of citizens em-
        ployed by these businesses named;
and the beginning of this accounting is 1958 and the end
        1968, that static be contained in orderly mind,
        coherent and definite,
and the first form of this litany begun first day December
        1967 furthers this poem of these States.

                                        December 1, 1967

Vernarth sequence

Prophecy I -  “Eighth month of sailing in systemic plenitude”

“Since they will not hunt us down in all our Itheoi cycles…
nor in other lapses from where the fine eye could have sewn the buttonholes of the shroud, where there will be life and if there will be a short time without life...
dragged by you for a long time where the sun is melted over the word, staying stored and locked in your pocket to collect it blushing,
tomorrow's jump without a yesterday declining..., without a tomorrow in the heat of a bonfire...
lamb in bait handled being the portal of those who have been slapped inside their cheeks… who will not shorten the cycle that transcends all the oblong sepulchral vaults or who abound in the nonsense of sanitizing nights of ***** despot life having to measure themselves in your flourishing duel by Aiónius of the cleanest dew of its solid stroke and announced delineation of the new one that has been retraced again being more than a brief syllable created again fertile, in the biosphere mouth so as not to see you omnipresent mist, meditating not having you and that dares to meditate on your future that will have to be reserved for yourself by professing it when you are cold in front of you and insinuating if in living followed by letters to be flooded pondering like a paralyzed sleeping part that wants not to be covered with feigned warmth and that does not fit in all the parts of me being who wants to be consul of some shelter with all those who sleep also half dreaming in the company of the lost afternoon that never ends serving Saint John in Katapausis here, perhaps Aiónius del Ibico 1 as a magnificent and net unit that sees the luminous truth when we all come out of a prophecy alive even if it's dark ".

"What a reckless job of losing value,
I am already in Katapausis in the eighth month...,
I entered as the light opened with my hand turned into the light...
being already a katapausis meaning in Sabbatarianism.
Quasi-unit method exhibiting cohesion to the rest motif
With levers in my hands and intra-sabbatism in his dissertation...
of an exegetical and theological nature that has transpired soft insomniac light, We are a people who do not have to fear or air to deposit for a future warehouse above the Sycamore or birds that guard all the Gold above my hands on the Sycamore…”

"Stay in my house, if I don't come back it will be yours
stay at home, it will belong to everyone even in the apocalypse...
that more reckless will be silent as a work of losing value,
Katapausis is the threshold where my life enters and leaves at once,
stay at my house, if I don't come back it will be yours...
Open windows by meekly closing them to that confronted obverse to you...

He comes from a den relativized on reliefs in weathered beads...
they will be soluble mineral beings convened moving away from the most distant and closest to the least distant…, from waters of underground siphons… there we will all be floating… like vertebrate invertebrate animals”

Vernarth, after not entering the grotto not having found Saint John, goes outside where he goes on a campaign for three months before he can be received by God's law. Here he meets with Reader and his pelican, as well as Eurydice.


Prophecy II -  “Seventh, Inter-synergy energy”

“Three months I have waited in the middle of this mountain,
symmetrically arranging the steps to be taken, not going backward
prana of life walking in oceans of life walking…
us and them… how much must separate us to reach us?
what I have not tried to separate…, what I have not been able to achieve…

I think I died early in the worlds that haven't risen yet,
I think I was reborn late among dense curves that overwhelm us with straight lines
soul, principle, matter, and material distinctive ontology
Ghost god of parallelisms beings and activities in affinity...
starvation body of low energy ceasing creatures in embryo
incessant firstborn to infuse other confining souls
trails demons slip where my ashes hands are sore
wounded doctrines to engender and doctrines to ulcerate...

As the prophecy uses the sea carrying messages resolved from shore to shore
close to a Virtual why in the twilight your Faith that must be glandular… matter of soul and body exposed to predisposing theological and chemical, in pursuit of the corruptible whole in vice versa if he does not burst with atheistic impatience.”

Eurydice takes a zither and sings tempting stormy actions to Vernarth, Raeder and Petrobus put their souls in line in the first linear principle, Together with the matter of corporeal fire proceeding to the definition where all the parts are confirmed without distinction dancing next to them creating the greatest bond of faith in body and soul, thus spending the three months in a few words of light of the sated fire.

"In the eighth-month katapausis, eight times your permanent peace must rest in
cited state; once it is translated into Sabbathisms and it will be the same state… When everyone finishes their dance in the cave and enters believing they have the courage to enter eight times in connection with rest…, plus eight times in connection without rest.
In some verses, the urgency of the entrance will be accentuated. The main issue “is that history will be repeating itself exactly where the Israelites were at Kadesh-Barnea. A related term either synonymous with Kadesh or referring to one of two sites, is Kadesh (or Qadesh) Barnea. Various etymologies for Barnea have been proposed, including 'wilderness of travel' but none have produced a broad consensus. What is the consensus? will we stop believing or lean on the shores of a preacher rain of Jehovah or lean on the shores of a preacher sinful waterfall or lean on the shores of a preacher confessing rain or lean on the shores of a preacher wet wind inquisitor...? where ever the aromas of its faithful winds served will go sacred to everything named before and many before the confessing rainy…, waterfalls in favor of the temperamental inquisitor wind”.

Astheneiais”, in Greek is and will be a weakness, in Hebrews a moral connotation and will mean not only physical weakness but a conscious weakness and trembling in temptation. Our Lord also understands us in this weakness because he was tempted in every way as we are. Since he himself was tempted he knows from experience what it means for us to be tempted. He was not tempted in all the particulars of our life, for example, He was not tempted as a husband or father, owner or employer or soldier, because he was none of these things. But he was tempted in all three areas of human susceptibility: body, soul, and spirit.

Prophecy III -  “Sixth, Resilience…”

“They were on the perimeter trying to keep me together at his command,
I go every day for its pantry, food, groceries, bookstore supplies and ink, oils, and other essences for the environment in continuous handwritten obedience, I have to leave for Skalá where some residents are waiting for me who have ordered to bring materials from Gricos and Psili Ammos to project your home,
If this has been written like this, it is because my pleasure in walking has written it, in the company of the one, he has written for the one who walks next to me the god Ibicus!

They always asked me why to mention why I have to do this for them… I will tell you that I used to serve leaders who consolidate the Hellenic geography,
without them, everything would have been invaded by unled foreign hands… in that rest, I have to attend to the verse that precedes it...
which says that we have already entered where I already intend to argue the following…

Resilience and exhortation that from the beginning I have taken since it began... now I will abide by and present your messages in a very predominant note, I was Hoplite Commander of the Falange and Hetairoi, now a Christian who does not dispute living a life of obedience to those who are not and are not without his martyrs...
like those people to whom God swore they will not enter my rest
whose amen will be preached in the passive voice verse!

Remain as the verb indicates with the real facts, the word
independent of the present, independent of who and when…
Saint Gabriel my Abrahamic angel will give me white strength and frolicking lilies like baskets of hermaphroditic lilies procreating only-begotten forests at the altar.

Stand tall over the Abrahamic fire without knuckles or shields,
rethink your beloved woman and take a sudden step to heal your wounds there is so much grass to cut and so much poetry to chew...
up the mountain towards Skalá at night after drinking wine
Epitrapezios Inos setting fire with innocuous saffron atmosphere
lips of fire and bread, for a good offensive fight.
Greek fire naphtha, cinnabar, and anthracite.

Wake up united with the deep disorder
Grant the color that deserves to have your day as a constellation
with the image that rests on your angular and calloused hands.
stopping spaces of loss more than all the centuries that waited for the minimum incense to a good warrior, sweet wine for open bleeding wound not his… the thunder that hides baptisms in all hearts empty of blood...

“While Vernarth was praying in the oracle he felt a thunderous supra sound As if the gates of hell had opened...
As if millions of seconds of angels were to be dispersed from the sky
To reduce more seconds of silence to the thinnest pleading eardrum

A few days ago I saw a ghost that was chopping wood...
I couldn't realize that he was really Him...,
I also saw him cutting thousands of volumes from a library...
Also, not realizing it, I saw several, like more than eighty manuscripts..., of breaths that still did not prosper in the hands of San Marcos...

A gigantic door slam is felt again...!
again it was the angels that came
at the wrong time in his return..., but now in his repatriation
they climbed through and into the Garden of Eden.”

Vernarth, evicted from the habit of the unknown, was apprehended by his craftsmanship of him, he was still attentive to be received by San Juan. The longer he waited to be arranged for an audience, he did not postpone what his memory pointed out to be more than an experience plotting capacities in the face of his own limitations. From that moment on, a gigantic gate slam is felt again! the angels who went back one after another with their polished golden-white cloaks relapsed..., but now making the Garden of Eden their own,... being theirs in what was theirs, that they would be in the house of a wise gardener of Eden perhaps being the same Katapausis manger at once!

Raeder says: hugging him profusely! time has to fly like little angels, having them by your side as companions of the time that is leftover on their wings, giving it all to your enjoyment of living and feeling it lost in you without finding it. ! khaire mi Vernarth!, I have some karidopitas with nuts and yogurt accompanied by baklava with nuts in delicious syrup from Kalymnos. Petrobus jumped for joy and fluttered like a hummingbird to steal a few pieces! Eurydice and Vernarth did the same. That night they told militia stories while they ate the morsels, so they fell asleep as if it had been the first time they had fought such a great menu. Euridice assists in the same with his fresh clean face, creating an atmosphere of conciliation to renew the dream of a day that will dawn close to his waking up far from the criminals. Vernarth takes the staff from him from then on and divides books and manuscripts into two portions so that he has time to take steps to really feel that he can walk close to Saint John.

Prophecy IV -  "Fifth, Nature, Manuscripts and Jophiel"

“Zeus wakes up trembling, full of headaches saturated with Herbs for headaches Jophiel speaking this time with the Kabbalistic language of the Torah...with golden commoner super zone of the Organikon Sorousliston Papadikon….age-old music that supplies Zeus with protein albumin, to make him more human…Zeus accepts Jophiel by placing his head about the house of Jophiel; a divine island to throw cards…brings the second ray to the Sahasrara at the crown of your head, pacifying love that is the suspicious and risky loser of everything risk in the head especially when a feeling is born!

Zeus turns his head and Jophiel twists it to the opposite side
about the ruined zeros that he did not count from the plasma of his dependency, Zeus feared having albumin at risk of human transmutation... happy to be able to cry he imagines slipping into the middle of a lake and he sees that he falls on Hera's poultry harming none, Zeus pours brimstone from his mouth and milks inelegant prose from the scythe…

Trina flame whose son bears glorious her bearer,
thousands of lives being clumsy for the wisest destitute
being what in the present you were more than past trine
when you harbor from Hanael's Blue Sodalite quarry
the imperfect perfects when you listen to your
body how it beats, how it breathes... you realize that it is perfect
as is Jophiel and discerns repairing the wisdom in the decisive punt
where gum rosin myrrh and multi urban frankincense go
towards the soul plane architecture of the human plane.
Hardened Zeus overflows glazed sallow emulsion of war
coagulated exhausting guarantor of everything is well,
books of the silent world of nails that do not sound sheets,
Hanael in massive books divides sounding with her iris gel-colored nails encrypted library manuscript of a thousand years, the voluptuous organism of a thousand years…
flapping unpredictable millennia and wiry hands,
colossal capstans…, annihilated with a thousand years…
a silly propeller that spins like a sickle rolling over a certain holistic tabernacle of the small portion of the next day when Zeus awoke to the diaphanous threatening light with sunless cloud waistband…
His face is seen with frowns and he looks at his face as well
without seeing folds…but in front of the Aiónius.

The geranium appears in the representation of the natural whole kicking the Sickle, much more here lost of our spiritual being
Zeus Jophiel's hardened shoulder heats up only to lean on Him...
light on his shoulders fires on both of them…
how long it takes to save us perhaps twenty times what supports us even tired and much more unwrapped than the treachery of him alone and without being followed without knowing
nothing more than a thousand-year-old shell through which he would drain…perhaps a tortoise-like millennial angel walked up to the omega! joy preparing to give you live hopeful,
that if it would be timely to give you more life...
Here is Aiónius reordering the world together with Zefian…
He shares everything eternal of all your life that floats in the sea,
miserable mix space where capo dastro separates the end
where all the wheres cannonade the hoarse fire...
cement that joins brick wall and plenary adobes
love without nature that castrates your beautiful woman
that hides her face without mascara looking for it...
let's go outside says Vernarth..., we still have a few seconds in his solvent... sensible, full, and arc well-being...
as if you were floating in the air floating more
also needed me to teach you before your limits limit you,
and make you angry from the miserable sense,... Don't listen to me anymore...!!”

Vernarth puts his first three fingers on the capo dastro roosters crow with his skin vibrating beyond the sleep of Raeder and Petrobus. Reader wakes up and says…; My Vernarth I will make fire and heat water. Petrobus runs with his wings to look for sacred wood. Eurydice comments…, I will prepare the praiseworthy sacred breakfast.

When they were preparing to do all this, Jophiel and Hanael appeared to him, joining in the breakfast that would feed all the days and millennia of the world. Unleavened fruit, honey, and milk multiply above all, satiating hunger with satiated satisfaction.

Prophecy V – Fourth, Limbus Necropolis

“From so far away…, so far away that I listen to your sacrosanct cries…!
from the Koumeterium of Messolonghi…, rocking my elbows and hurting myself
moving in rare pleasant crypt upon crypts disconsolate stones
not so far away..., keys held in the eighth cemetery...
Who is to open the heavy door now...?
I come from Messolonghi 555 km in linear figures to Patmos...,
narrowing concave… doubtful in extension, passion princess cloud
He must welcome me benevolently in the night nymph consort...
Limbus N cloud, Cloud Cemetery lofty lofty hypogeum
soul of Limbo, before seeing the nut that girds the face in the graceful Grim Reaper resurrecting restless…, sinning… grail sacrament without Being or being…?
Necropolis Cloud, expectant mortuary technology...
amaze me if there is a byte for me...
narrow conscience, unseemly to amaze me?

Here the lost mist of the Nothofagus God phoneme-photon vanishes with divine mass light to build the Áullos Kósmos. The Sacrament of Limbus will provide spaces and assemblages of meters for thousands of areas of infamous wandering the Ouranos, approaching the Áullos Kósmos to host him and rescue the children of the meter that was missing in the numeral rule of the Megaron acroteria before going up to the Necropolis Cloud. Vernarth, mere body formalizing principle...
extinct delicate evocation of the shadow of Elpenor;
Achaean warrior of Ulysses grandiloquent who even has otitis
and verse where flu spreads influenza
heartbreak from far away reverberating in the elite of lexicons…
arriving equidistant ... the last one arrives threatening with his Kantabroi staying neither divided nor captured, taking refuge in outright failure twilight of megahertz, farce propaganda surrendered fear will not fall even after …

Vernarth falls from the Koumeterium Mesolonghi in the Necropolis cloud privileging his status, he falls from this gloomy digital platform with a high alcoholic degree! from the high heaven after drinking hours he came in the carriage that was from Zilos, with the passion of heaven depriving his understanding stunned on some branches of will of Ziziphus…, stunned on branches of mercy….

Vernarth in a contrite accident with Elpenor, his psyche flies to the realm of the dead, Hades was remaining prisoner in that world taking the form of a Homeric icon or shadow. Vernarth was asleep after his binge, and Elpenor asks him if he wanted to join him with some concoctions. He was with blurred vision, a headache, and still lying down. But in the passionate horror of his drunkenness, he gets up quickly, saying to Elpenor: For me, it was one less pain to drink after having fallen from such a distance without being able to request and have had the grace of my mother's lullaby. For this reason, I hug you! They went together to the Cloud Necropolis to continue in the Limbus trying to alternate their physical body to gaseous liquid. At that moment Eurídice hits her with a piece of wood on her legs so that she wakes up from the bite of that nightmare that overwhelmed her to finally be able to wake up. Raeder had gone with Petrobus to Skalá to seek inputs of gnosis and his own inspiration for accents before the welcome in Katapausis to come in the blink of an eye of San Juan, necessary redaction for licenses and to be admitted to his library.

Prophecy VI - “Third, Rethymnon City and State”

“Vernarth heard the sound of a bouzouki, spoke of a 40-day fast that Greece celebrates before Easter, at the Rethymnon carnival they come from all over Greece to attend as a family during the week with animations, evenings and concerts, dances…theatre, floats with Venetian art in the picturesque old town and modern city, in this ancient city …

Rethymnon Political Ellipsis

“Like territorial extension, past-future organized infamous scene…Vernarth imagines being with Etréstles in immediate predictions
with years and thousands…, clan hobbies, Rethymnon manuscript…
while he thus deliberated…, thus rejoicing in the immaculate extramural grotto thus being as if it were comparable to a Neolithic village; being together lost with eagerness to appear from political power... palaces, kings, pro-organized religions..., rancorous superlative temple, priestly-eucharistic, nationalized sovereign citizen... commanding Parliament of the Hellenic politai people
the competent anti-value entity of the substratum political state…
sedentary-agricultural or nomadic-livestock culture…, vertical Hoplite culture!”

In Thessaloniki street, he would meet his brother head-on...Imagining how he would be...? Well-dressed-shiny, he would be in a passing tavern usually naming himself tradition and terms of questionable validity rather than those of a retro-linguistic family, in the remarkable urban-city dialogue called seditious inns with networks of political territorial extension, reaching the colossal size of multinational ideals of a complex stratification, social meeting place, future ministries to whom to delegate?. They would arrive at the tavern in Rethymnon in Crete, they order coffee, biscuits, and Mosaikó chocolates. In an unexpected moment, he suddenly wakes up from this deep, hallucinating, and futuristic imagination! His brother appears immediately, not in Rethymnon but in Katapausis with the goddess Lepidoptera!

End Ellipsis Rethymnon

“At the moment his imagination breaks just when they were preparing to toast… Etréstles in this same interval appear in Katapausis Reader and Petrobus coming in a singular pilgrimage from Skalá…this is how the syllabic song of the arcane ***** is heard emitting from the grotto…, yellow lights and saffron…. Saint John and the Gospel celebrating the Eucharist…Vernarth would believe for the first time that the hermit would come, but No…!
his brother was to be in the intervening yellow-white light
in front of him nothing more than Etréstles visiting him”

Likewise, they would no longer be in Rethymnon,
but the carnival would already begin in the region of Patmos...
eating delicacies, and the Sousta towards the circle of the Sun in the hands…They have been two months with the sweetened Moon and the Sun posing its mass of light in her… soft palm next to her waiting for him in the proximity of a Hebrew silence

Estretles says Khaire Vernarth! from Piacenza who did not see your joyous lux! I can see now to the sound of yourself the stoic zither...
countenance light, the orbit of your eyes, pale asthenia without photon without light, expectorant suppuration of your sacred Lynothorax, Absent in front of the long and fatal transverse lapse!
Raeder makes a speech to Zeus Photon Child Lux
Fulminant spends time where it remains greater than the minimum...
Patmos is the time of the Messiah…, retrograde years…
polis Helennic city-states.

Culture-state… state time chorus in tune
Philosophical poetic-epic Olympian Aiónius global leader
Homeric poems..., Raeder I am..., a naughty Politai...
you Vernarth are Politai Hetairoi militia
candy wasted by me Raeder… sweetened in my memory
polytheistic, cultured and declined…
theocratic referendum or democratic right,
Exciting porridge of my Kourabiedes cookies
butter, icing sugar, flour, eggs from the icy cliff
vanilla or Mastica resin, ***, Ouzo, mastica liquor…
or other alcoholic beverages…, which bubble on the underside of Aiónius soaked in my mouth with water from petal buds
coated for you with sugar on the tip of my tongue…
reflective cops in a wonderful dialogue of a tasty recipe...
It's time for everyone else to snack too!!

In that second Raerder was choking on a Kourabiede biscuit,
but there was the guardian of the Petrobus who piloted the
throwing hieratic water on the inside of his mouth,
forcing him to take heart from the buttress of his speech
shooing thick crumbs from his skinny dialogue spitted...
Gerakis, ray, tabletop oak bull, scepter for those who rule with him and not...My Zeus friend I invite you to play marbles,
I invite you to tell us that we are friends...
we're both fine… only Space-separated us…?

Raeder runs towards Zeus' thunderbolt from his right hand.
he jumps up and takes it from her, in exchange for this she gives him his marbles...The entire earth tilts over the Aegean..., the earth's axis tilts eight degrees, altering the cerebrospinal fluid of the Hellenic geopolitical conception..., with Zeus poly infarcted over descending magnitudes of inter-politics, millennia and headless governments...

“Apokalypsis lightning restarted, emerged from a New World”
Prophecy VII -. “Second, Alikanto Aion, Quantum”
"Kalymnos, golden tetra steed Alikanto was grazing under the metallic moon...
transiting its quantum physics…, golden legs…, four golden domes
the super host being in Apoika Andros next to the villagers,
commemorating troupe and advent…, Heraklion next period
celebrant anniversary, progeny bearer of Kanti Cretense,
close cycles of the sacred fire, domestic environment, and private zeal...
funerary hidden cult… streets in the hieratic family dwelling
fertile women… totalized and lustful ****…
productive longevity and harvests…, family Apoika
next successor belligerence…, funerary plexus…
culty predecessor…, treatise and imprecation of law, theme and legible religion domestic scene, family civic servant ceremony

Goddess Hestia austere, head with eight sacred candles dressed
Olympus lacking without gods…, only Goddesses embargo!
Feminine Hestia Domestic Goddess, an emanation of the female oval to ovulating…Pritaneo, the central decree of the political harvests… foreign exchange grains to be minted monetary stock exchange of Athens… Pritaneo ford on the rise, ford on increase Aion... hesitant dart swoop into eternity,
Alikanto Perpetual Aion…Speaks with both hands
synchronized and tilted tongue…
stutters and swallows, in six paranasal sinuses
saturated with fiery saliva..., and an Internal voice saying say...
what makes sense to feel and what does not turn off...
sleeping waves in the poison of love igniting
intra-Vernarth love…, billing infected holy blood
methodical coupled time…, Gaugamela the bronze extremity,
of a lost leader…, won leader!

If I had to run to rewrite retro Adhoc poems and chosen trova,
With a shy Trojan verse, I would dare today if I kissed her in front of me… she!
she would jump from the hyperesthetic-Ouranos…, inhuman to the Aion world
aurora celestina, bleeds big and defiant today in your star
In herself Ella…, pestiferous condemnation sweetness and aura between her…she just be, she herself be supported be…, Oh… Goddess Hestia on your opposite leg unbraced arm, meadow and vein braid… assaulted by lost and thirsty love written everything if she tempts…, everything wields darkly if it took you to our Olympus… at night loving you whole..., emptying everything with no inappropriate hand singing don vine fissure and intimate company, may it be exterminated... passion outside with nailed stake..., iron embedding..., nails wounding...exhausted supra lips supra yours…, mid sand writing full to her…
tip of my Xiphos… blood made written with written maiden mythology,
letter sword Spatha…, cyclamen balm made whole if I had you!

“To the loves of the world I say…, cover your ears fungus of boredom, your torn ears squander ignoring more than sordid saying...my blood kills, my blood revives! I **** my blood and I **** everyone, with your blood scattered, ***** blood scattered…!
do not leave me alone until nightfall… I only ask for holy water,
emptied from your mouth goddess Hestia who flies tons over me...
I only ask for a spatha romantic blood sharp, ******, and scattered...
to write to the love wars that I have lost...
to the wars of love that I have won, slicing the jugular of the
treacherous and wicked emperor"

“… Alikantus, he remembered the Hoplite commander in Gaugamela, he remembered when he dodged arrows with his head so that they would not hit his body or his pectoral. From such a present moment falling by surrendering to the evocation of him. He goes down to a stream and confines himself to the vanity quagmire, continues on his path reaching a suspicious lagoon, drinks sacred water, drinking again manages to perceive the effigy of Vernarth in the mirror of Aion's Hydor... calling him from Patmos! Law reminded his master how he died for everyone in the world just as the world would not let him bring more than agonizing for him because there was no more space said Aionius ... "

Alikantus then clenched his jaws too hard, falling out all his molars, he asked the Gods in front of Hestia to restore them fifteen days before arriving at the Ekadashi in Patmos where his master, thus loving all the lives of the world, as well as the hidden cries behind the Dypilons hiding the power of God… or laugh at gagged iris flashes and mummified sighs with lives that subsist!

Vernarth from Patmos called to him so that his eyes looked invigorated like the swarms of green and gray vanadium fire, of mood in the predictive table and close prediction. AlIkantus bids farewell to Kalymnos spraying sorrel and hyper-odoriferous flowers of the Apoika in Kalymnos loving from above, very close, flying, loving everything so much that he forgot to fly. He sometimes fell hard but recovered retried as a baby steed in the womb of a mother new species to be born again in Apoika!


Prophecy VIII -  "First of Aionius, "Eleusis Prophecy of Hamor"
“Aiónius received news of Hamor's prophecy; cosmic orgiastic order
tyrannical snake victim throwing herself into her abyss and purpose..., banishment as an objective void to be decreed, even so ending the world from another world,
discontinuous terse march, slurred arpeggio, speech by Aiónius
there is no world left but if extermination…, undone threshold…, provoke in delicate chaos…!

As a child, I ran to the supreme world herding lions... I called them and they ran to me..., they came alone, some didn't...! Being young, one day Aionius went to the farm and counted the lions... Some came others No... Aionius..., in such a hamorio he was locking an earring from his ears, he hung them again, which happened the next day relaxed..., he saw a maiden who laughed hypnotized…, he sighed when she turned around saying with her poor gestures… Destroy it! The afflicted turned away not knowing what was coming… destroying the desolate world vilifying silky physiognomies, chipped and dandruff face slipping from yours being captive and arid…, tempts to flow libertarian imprint in foreign praxis, origin, and end,
me from the slime being born in my eighth life in nothingness ataxia…

The beloved Victim surrounded by snakes moved the stump of her arms
eaten away by the serpent that took refuge in thorns of forged steel...
she kept walking…, Aiónius pointed at her and kissed her gestures escaping frightened towards the valley in farewells... not fitting itself in valleys that were never anything she paraded with the current of her last word, the beloved again moved her arms following her in front of her the beast was on her, Aiónius buried from fleeing and coming… with fiery phenotype, abrupt vocabulary, says: “Strapping and interludes, after beings of impiety, the world of impiety, Hamor of the first wit… towards other refuges I will depart about a Yes devouring bare ring on it…”
escape curve that cuts the pelvis of my beloved
destructive be your curved world that before had to destroy me...
ultra pre-hellenic nymph Harpé passion spread on me…
Hailed libertarian praise, aristocratic vermilion accent, minority ruling? Overwhelming rigor expended, prophetic Hamor, prophetic expansive arsenal! It must come from all the supreme worlds with strokes and silhouettes conquering...true dream, confused hypothetical oscillate sweeping imploring and contracting popular decision, management and space of my Sickle…, sometimes uncontained… worse avenues in its radius and dark mourning badly wounded shadow! The vertex that finally launches opens the dawn and his Hamada flees... Leaving with the untidy serpent, about touching and causing rangers in the stuck earth.

Demeter and Persephone; based on Eleusis in ancient Greece
mystery myth of the abduction of Persephone daughter of Demeter…
by the king of the underworld of Hades, Abrahamanica's offspring
cabal, life in the descent, the search and the ascent…
Ascent of Indra lightning Vahana and lightning from her right eye,
Persephone to the reunion with her beloved daughter ascending.

Zodiac and mysteries involved, visions and sleight of hand
that of an afterlife, rain of seven trunks, long-lived Airavata
elephant, Eleusis jump psychedelic mystery, incision, and coherent rites, ceremonies and experiences of cold winters and life on earth
plants in gestation under the gift of Elitíaen and beings that
they are about to germinate and be born, beings in a chain of genes...
vegetable running on the earth, vegetable in March in its glory
September in the jaws of the purified phrase and inaccurate acropolis I…

Sacred obscenities, deadly tributes with the death penalty...,
wandering nights without clothes with obese and badly fragrant meats point and taco dances praising the harvest in honor of a dead Thracian bull, libating priestly vessels and bullfighting heads in a deliberately defined and improper triweekly ritual, revealed in Demeter and Persephone.

Only Hamor in his venerable pyx lies locked up knowing he is unable to open inside this lustful bewitching sparkles, the mystery of emancipated disenchantment that awakens from his slow consciousness without knowing how to go on passing in the sum of all happenings of Aiónius. ”

This is how he defined himself from the syncretism of Indra and the mystery of Eleusis, from Demeter and his daughter Persephone from the vile kidnapped underworld. Of the divine Goddess Elitia and the annual records of children born within a year in the germinating seed of the mystery of love that would begin with this prophecy with the initial "H" of the underworld exclaimed Hades and Greek heritage in this event. Vernarth and his companions listened to this prophecy, almost falling asleep, it seemed to them sweet pallor-bitter, love-heartbreak in the previous day before diagnosing having a presence in the hermitage of San Juan Apóstol for the superior company of a later day that was approaching as the greatest daring of all up in the mountains while disposing of Vernarth's Apologist obverse of Aiónius's.

Epilogue Prophecies - “Eleusis, Isadora Duncan to the Parthenon”

“Vernarth and Eurydice indulged in the jargon of agitated diasporas
of inhabitants fleeing the Rite of Eleusis, crossed hands and feet
They dueled on olive trunks with Theban thunder, vague Insurrection of the ancient world, and consonants of barbarian Pleiades,
acclaiming predilection of the Eremita San Juan to appear...
in a breath of peace resurfacing... but seeing that Vernarth was accompanied of Eurydice hid in front of them leaving only her aura near from the stream of a chrysalis!
In the dizzying succession of myths, good news reaches her sacred ears, waking up her trend and her high quarterly price outside the walls... being later received in the grotto of the hermitage in growing expectation and a link of longing that weaves to remind him of being a crusade piece.

The kidnapping of his reverie feared and timid frivolous crushing blizzard, he was walking surrounded by Falangists on horseback pointing at him and threatening him, scrutinizing in the distance loneliness of his past lives,
his regressive life, concerning key to origins of his illustrative Existence, stranded at this moment..., Vernarth makes a pact with himself to detach himself..., of his spirit, detach from their lives under a hypnotic and compelling law..., like a suspended index in the Sistine Chapel, homologous ship Ave Maria Messiah!

From Eleusis Vernarth vanished in aerial horse-dreaming,
he crossed through the pavilions with himself persevering some wake
riding his Alikantus ******* and standing with him to pillage the Empyrium niche Persephone's trace of herself and her ******* ******* them...
with devoted passion, milky way, and milky syrup chin howling...
Vanishing dancer, Athenian acropolis, Dionysian sanctuary of the acropolis… Stepdaughter-patron in the dance of Zeus and Themis lopsided frame of the season's wildness of all creation and defiance of Eleusis looking for her daughter and her children, priestesses safely taking off their corset and their pictures…
raging chastity, oligo blood, Itheoi music, outraged dance complaining, Possessed expressing being seductive but also a native *******... the underworld in darkness, free daughter, and iconoclastic Greek mythologist
inconvenient Victorian mania, a courtesan from Olympus, courtesan undressed! Isadora, Demeter, and Persephone… flooded with Aphrodite foam!

She “prayed songs with plexus and feet, plotting gardens around the world… full of baseboard feet where everything created in brief Apokálypsis was dying! By desolate Parthenons dancing in Muscovite ruins, maenades sweaty enclave and also throwing back his head as if possessed by ecstasy in her Bugatti and Leonidas…, enchanted by Aiónius! intoxicated and exorbitant with beautiful rosy placebo eyes... Hair with headbands vine petioles, her Nebris tight skin was wearing... in her hand's bunches of barberries to Dionysus with torches and live snakes a chaste crook naming Thirsus; rod topped with Kashmar branches wrapped in borders, vines and ivy, allusive link…, morbid ecosystem! covering her crotch in the Temple of her Kopanos dancing from the eternal fire cremated and in a romantic dimension remembering Byron's meritorious…
Hellenic passionate, and of Hölderlin poeticizing together with Aiónius.

Rudiment wound … ruinous on value exciting in those
of the imagined and creative in her perdition, Sicalipsis e impudicias
torn fire in the Metelmi and her ***** we are twisted,
epic worthy of greek tragedy dancing like waves of fire
in the forge in terrifying death of her children Deirdre and Patrick,
submerged and injured in the Seine in Paris in 1913, falling into the
water in the car that was traveling with her wet nurse… before…!
saying goodbye to them in urgent social commitments,
I Aiónius take you to the Empyrium.

What a dire tribulation in the prevailing misfortunes by not postponing it, retain the fate of whose children is quite a story with the kidnapping of theirs and merits of fulfilling commitments committed to solicitous artists... support, crestfallen inside a dresser or Bolshoi dancing statue, dancing empty with bare feet, frigid anemone, frigid Sea…

Arriving at the dawn of her last prophecy, Isadora Duncan accompanies her in full life beyond all limiting borders with the borders of her dance, the flat field of Eleusis receives her presumptuously associating in around for the dressings...
And left-handed dalliance self-indulging…, advanced barefoot to the Parthenon…!naked towards the world and the orb dug out of her before her undressed.

Reader and Petrobus jumped on this steep stone, emulating the meteorites that shone in the sky of Patmos such a party of nocturnal lights, such emery detached from a fleeting planet in the largest Hellenic scene saying: "Well-being to the Hellenic World all calm, dance and immunity to the firmament where Isidora rests in the Kantabroi of Aionius”

Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes
along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.
The starless silence, fleeing
from her rhythmic tambourine,
falls where the sea whips and sings,
his night filled with silvery swarms.
High atop the mountain peaks
the sentinels are weeping;
they guard the tall white towers
of the English consulate.
And gypsies of the water
for their pleasure *****
little castles of conch shells
and arbors of greening pine.

Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes.
The wind sees her and rises,
the wind that never slumbers.
Naked Saint Christopher swells,
watching the girl as he plays
with tongues of celestial bells
on an invisible bagpipe.

Gypsy, let me lift your skift
and have a look at you.
Open in my ancient fingers
the blue rose of your womb.

Precosia throws the tambourine
and runs away in terror.
But the virile wind pursues her
with his breahing and burning sword.

The sea darkens and roars,
while the olive trees turn pale.
The flutes of darkness sound,
and a muted gong of the snow.

Precosia, run, Precosia!
Of the green wind will catch you!
Precosia, run, Precosia!
And look how fast he comes!
A satyr of low-born stars
with their long and glistening tongues.

Precosia, filled with fear
now makes her way to that house
beyond the tall green pines
where the English consul lives.

Alarmed by the anguished cries,
three riflemen come running,
their black capes tightly drawn,
and berets down over their brow.

The Englishman gives the gypsy
a glass of tepid milk
and a shot of Holland gin
which Precosia does not drink.

And while she tells them, weeping,
of her strange adventure,
the wind furiously gnashes
against the slate roof tiles.

Data fata secutus.
DEVISE DES ST-JOHN.

Ce siècle avait deux ans ! Rome remplaçait Sparte,
Déjà Napoléon perçait sous Bonaparte,
Et du premier consul, déjà, par maint endroit,
Le front de l'empereur brisait le masque étroit.
Alors dans Besançon, vieille ville espagnole,
Jeté comme la graine au gré de l'air qui vole,
Naquit d'un sang breton et lorrain à la fois
Un enfant sans couleur, sans regard et sans voix ;
Si débile qu'il fut, ainsi qu'une chimère,
Abandonné de tous, excepté de sa mère,
Et que son cou ployé comme un frêle roseau
Fit faire en même temps sa bière et son berceau.
Cet enfant que la vie effaçait de son livre,
Et qui n'avait pas même un lendemain à vivre,
C'est moi. -

Je vous dirai peut-être quelque jour
Quel lait pur, que de soins, que de vœux, que d'amour,
Prodigués pour ma vie en naissant condamnée,
M'ont fait deux fois l'enfant de ma mère obstinée,
Ange qui sur trois fils attachés à ses pas
Épandait son amour et ne mesurait pas !

Ô l'amour d'une mère ! amour que nul n'oublie !
Pain merveilleux qu'un Dieu partage et multiplie !
Table toujours servie au paternel foyer !
Chacun en a sa part, et tous l'ont tout entier !

Je pourrai dire un jour, lorsque la nuit douteuse
Fera parler les soirs ma vieillesse conteuse,
Comment ce haut destin de gloire et de terreur
Qui remuait le monde aux pas de l'empereur,
Dans son souffle orageux m'emportant sans défense,
À tous les vents de l'air fit flotter mon enfance.
Car, lorsque l'aquilon bat ses flots palpitants,
L'océan convulsif tourmente en même temps
Le navire à trois ponts qui tonne avec l'orage,
Et la feuille échappée aux arbres du rivage !

Maintenant jeune encore et souvent éprouvé,
J'ai plus d'un souvenir profondément gravé,
Et l'on peut distinguer bien des choses passées
Dans ces plis de mon front que creusent mes pensées.
Certes, plus d'un vieillard sans flamme et sans cheveux,
Tombé de lassitude au bout de tous ses vœux,
Pâlirait s'il voyait, comme un gouffre dans l'onde,
Mon âme où ma pensée habite comme un monde,
Tout ce que j'ai souffert, tout ce que j'ai tenté,
Tout ce qui m'a menti comme un fruit avorté,
Mon plus beau temps passé sans espoir qu'il renaisse,
Les amours, les travaux, les deuils de ma jeunesse,
Et quoiqu'encore à l'âge où l'avenir sourit,
Le livre de mon cœur à toute page écrit !

Si parfois de mon sein s'envolent mes pensées,
Mes chansons par le monde en lambeaux dispersées ;
S'il me plaît de cacher l'amour et la douleur
Dans le coin d'un roman ironique et railleur ;
Si j'ébranle la scène avec ma fantaisie ;
Si j'entre-choque aux yeux d'une foule choisie
D'autres hommes comme eux, vivant tous à la fois
De mon souffle et parlant au peuple avec ma voix ;
Si ma tête, fournaise où mon esprit s'allume,
Jette le vers d'airain qui bouillonne et qui fume
Dans le rythme profond, moule mystérieux
D'où sort la strophe ouvrant ses ailes dans les cieux ;
C'est que l'amour, la tombe, et la gloire, et la vie,
L'onde qui fuit, par l'onde incessamment suivie,
Tout souffle, tout rayon, ou propice ou fatal,
Fait reluire et vibrer mon âme de cristal,
Mon âme aux mille voix, que le Dieu que j'adore
Mit au centre de tout comme un écho sonore !

D'ailleurs j'ai purement passé les jours mauvais,
Et je sais d'où je viens, si j'ignore où je vais.
L'orage des partis avec son vent de flamme
Sans en altérer l'onde a remué mon âme ;
Rien d'immonde en mon cœur, pas de limon impur
Qui n'attendît qu'un vent pour en troubler l'azur !

Après avoir chanté, j'écoute et je contemple,
À l'empereur tombé dressant dans l'ombre un temple,
Aimant la liberté pour ses fruits, pour ses fleurs,
Le trône pour son droit, le roi pour ses malheurs ;
Fidèle enfin au sang qu'ont versé dans ma veine
Mon père, vieux soldat, ma mère, vendéenne !

Juin 1830.

Clodius’ ashes rose above
The Curia in flames.
His supporters filled the streets
crying out his name.
In a city ruled by violence,
One wracked by rival mobs,
The rule of law grew as silent
as the altars of her gods.
Pompey the great, sole consul,
His ally, Milo, would betray...
The eloquent grew fearful
of themselves becoming prey.

He packed his desire to remain
His state of transforming himself
Into the man that he dreamed of
And has not achieved

He said good-bye with a grimace disguised as a smile
And supplicated to his crucified God on the mantelpiece
For the protection of his loved ones

And he broke through the border
As he could

If the pale moon slips
Through any cornice
Without any permission
Why does el mojado need
To show with visas
That he is not of Neptune?

El mojado has the desire to dry off
El mojado is wet because of the tears that nostalgia evokes
El mojado, the one without documentation
Loads the packages that the legal would not load
Not even when forced

The torment of a piece of paper has turned him into a fugitive
And he is not from here because his name does not appear in the files
Nor is he from there because he went away

If the pale moon slips
Through any cornice
Without any permission
Why does el mojado need
To show with visas
That he is not of Neptune?

El Mojado
He knows your truth through lies
He knows anxiety through sadness
Of seeing a freeway and dreaming of the path
That leads to your house

El Mojado
Wet from so much weeping
Knowing that in some place
Waits a kiss taking a break
Since the day on which you left

If the pale moon slips
Through any cornice
Without any permission
Why does el mojado need
To show with visas
That he is not of Neptune?

If the universal visa is issued
On the day that we are born
And it expires upon death
Why do they persecute you, el mojado
If the consul of the heavens
Already gave you permission?

Minuscule millions
Shot from little cannon
Passionate, Jostle,
One and only one,
The king in thirst
Champions the cause
And strikes the target

The queen in quest
Hosts, nestles primitive cell
That splits infinitely
To finite and figure out

Cells celebrate, proliferate,
Churn, collate, calibrate,
Format, animate anatomy
In fixed flexible capsule,
As nine full moons pass by

Consul flushed out of flesh
Soul lit the light  
At its zero exit
To the shrill cry of entity
The glow begins to grow.

Chapter XIII
Ekadashi, Nix in the Dark

From all the districts they came to witness the material effects of Gaugmela. Three days before, the Falangists under Vernarth were hit by the Ekadashi. They fasted three days before and gave themselves over to the radiations of Zeus, imposing the radiosities of the lunar movements. It is the penultimate step, there were already hours to walk through the dust that shook the heels of the Falanges. All the accoutrements and animals given over to the devotion of his soul and to his disputable faithful.

Already in the immediate circle of Gaugamela's possessions. Darius then came to cross the Tigris, organizing his troops and his harem. The Macedonians arranged the army that numbered 7,000 horsemen and 40,000 infantry. Alexander's elite heavy cavalry were the Hetairoi (Companions) and were made up of the Macedonian nobility, who accompanied Alexander in this battle and were the deciding factor in the battle. Vernarth commands the more than 40,000 infants, keeping a close relationship with the Hetairoi, with his arms twinned with divine caste. And Greek Hoplites who intervened to cover the rear of the phalanx, which Vernarth sponsored in the farthest reaches of thought of this moving stain of thousands of Macedonians singing institutional war poetry.

From the Dodecanese, Kalidona and all the central Greek archipelagoes came to pay tribute to Vernarth, accompanied by Etréstles de Kalavrita, great hero and defender along with Markos Botsaris (Chapter 6, page 36 Koumeterium Messolonghi / Palibrio USA) in this great epic. Raeder also joined his Petrobus Pelicanos, Brisehal and Strigoi from the Transylvanian transverse valleys, soon arrived from the Reign of Horcondising, after boarding his Frigate in Valparaíso. Adding the nine elements of the Megatons reviving in case they are ratified of a new Era.

They all camped five kilometers from the Rio Bumodos, on the north ***** where the moon shadows favored them of a new lunar phase, movements, ebb and flow, the influence of energy. The devotees of the clan did not attach any particular importance to it, they attach importance to these days for one reason only because these days it can enhance their devotion, so they are engaged in service. They are waiting for these days to have the opportunity to further strengthen their devotion, in order to accept the procedures at their right hand with the astrological or cosmic interpretations of the Ekadashi that can be explained by the people of the material world.

Concept infringed upon the devotees is that Ekadashi is the day when the Lord strives for greater enjoyment, to challenge incessant pain from the imbalance of the collective emotions of the attendees. And the others as an ingredient of souls that are destined for their enjoyment should try to give more energy to Vernarth and his regression parapsychological. But we must also understand that we are in the margin of life, so we should not think that Zeus extremely needs our service. He is completely self-sufficient and is in the transcendental world. But he does not leave us alone with his vague glimpses of company.

Ekadashi is a Sanskrit word that means "the eleventh first." The holiday refers to the eleventh day of the fortnight belonging to the lunar month. The moon has two fortnights in a month - The waxing phase of the moon and the waning phase of the moon, so Ekadashi falls twice a month. If we count the contest it was the first of October 1, the ekadashi is biweekly. Is worth to say; that the lunar flows would scrub their triple lunar circles from September 20 331 a. C., which is cyclically corresponding to the eleventh day of self-generation of the phenomenon. That would be crucial in the moldy veil of consecration of the Macedonian Holiness and their immortal souls.

The Falangists' minds will tend to ask millions of circular questions one after another, but it is not their great task to be busy and deal with a lot of various questions in the cold of the night. Our task is to learn to chant the Holy Name without committing ineffective offenses. And in a certain state of mind this will appear in our hearts, rather than in the concentric circle of our Hoplite shield in the defensive Hellenic rear.

An eclipse before battle
Let's go back in time momentarily to October 1, 331 B.C. That day the battle of Gaugamela took place, one of the most important in antiquity. The setting was the banks of the Bumodos River, just over twenty kilometers from Mosul (Iraq). There the Macedonian troops of Alexander the Great (356 BC-323 BC) and the Persian army of Darius III (380 BC-330 BC) faced each other. Vernarth was close to the leader, and they were playing the Dorius with the hoofs of the Steeds and they were vibrating the Sarissas spears with the dark spots falling from the top of the tinted sky, more than the foot-tapping of the sandals of their Thessalonic infants filling their glasses with greater wine Cretense not to tarnish your upstairs fears cosmological.

Eleven days before the battle, under the gaze of thousands of Mesopotamian and Macedonian soldiers, the Moon hid. Not even her benevolent lady sphinx managed to express stunned, almost disheveled before the stars that looked at her. The camp was suddenly plunged into the deepest darkness. Far from marveling and enjoying this astronomical event, the undaunted human troops of both armies interpreted it as a sign of bad omen, sensing an imminent defeat. The panic was greater among the Macedonian ranks that at that time forded the Tigris River in search of Darius III's troops. The soldiery interpreted the Dark Moon as symbolizing the advent chaos against the celestial order, so there was a marked reluctance to continue. This gesture was about to destroy the empire of Alexander the Great.

Fortunately, the Greek strategist managed to change their minds by making a very different reading of the lunar phenomenon: the divine message had to be translated as that the sun, a Macedonian symbol, was going to eclipse the moon a symbol of the Persians.

Alexander Magnus says to them:
I know that your tracks will leave visible traces of the high sky for those who do not go unnoticed. I know that your bellies will empty all your viscera to the sheer Death that is decked out by scaring its docile and nascent hair, like seeds germinated without the freshness of the unruly Sun, yet atoned for in the bowels of the prophecies of the augur.

In spite of everything, the arrogant Macedonian must not have them all with him because he summoned Aristandro, his personal necromancer, in his tent, and asked him to make a sacrifice to the god Phobo, the god of fear and horror. The augur inspected the entrails of the slaughtered animals and assured Alexander that fortune was on his side and he would achieve victory. The prophecy had to reassure the bulk of the army, since the next day they set off, moving away from the bank of the Tigris River, looking for the confrontation against the Achaemenid hosts.
In the Battle of Gaugamela the Macedonian army showed its teeth and twitched the profiles of the Persian temples and their lodge. The cavalry enveloped the Persian troops on their right, penetrating to the heart of the army creating the devastating effluvium that frozen the impression of the eternity of an empire and its empty policy. Darius III intuited that his life was at risk in the face of this contingency, and he fled a horrifying flight, which created a greater confusion among his troops, definitively unbalancing the result of the fight against Alexander the Great. Vernarth, their main commander, before Darius was filled with the worst fear, stormed his own scythe carts and shot the troops head-on, many of the scattered victims being severed. He sprinkled first-degree alcohol on their heads to leave them out in the open and posterity would come the Goddess of the night Nix, spilling sour macerated petals on all of them to bury us in the imprecations of the God Erebus in the deep light devoid of the calm margin of redeeming them of chaos.

Over the sea of crushed earth, beneath the surface of Gaugamela, their floods of elusive phlegm ran through the catacombs, the hurried insectaries of the underworld of the god Tartarus fled. Nix is usually depicted as a winged woman dressed in a black cloak covered in stars. She drives a cart drawn by two horses and normally, her twin sons Hipnos and Thanatos accompany her, here they ran everywhere, to attest the regrets of the Hoplite Phalangists, after being invaded by mythological forces of the Achaemenides. His powers were believed to be superior to those of any other god (believed to even arouse the fear of Zeus) and his worship occurred throughout Ancient Greece. Normally, consecration rituals were performed with roosters and black sheep since it was believed that their singing disturbed the stillness of the nights. Its sacred animal was the owl and its symbolic plant, the ****** poppy. Greek myths believed that when Nix emerged from Tartarus to the surface of the earth, night took place while day suffered from shyness.

Saint Corinth night
The Acrocorintus was a citadel with a triple line of walls, which according to mythology would have corresponded to the sun god Helium, in the dispute it had with Poseidon (god of the seas), who was assigned the Corinth isthmus. of the referee of the contest, Briareo, who was a Hecatónquiro (giant that had fifty heads and a hundred arms) according to the story of the Greek historian Pausanias. The Acrorintus was located on the steep mountains in the south of the city, where the temple of the goddess Aphrodite and the fountain of Pyrene were, and which was larger than Corinth itself, so it could serve as a refuge for the inhabitants if were invaded. It was also the target of the destruction of the Roman consul Mumio, and later rebuilt.

Laus Iulia Corinthiensis, colony of that time in one night under the maroon influence of the blizzard of millions of Fireflies, invaded all the fields of Macedonia. Some of these super noctulizing species migrated from the poles fainting before the Dodona oracle in the twilight that espouses the night of the day in vicious reconciliation. They entered the oracle sworn by civilizations 650 B.C.

The night of Saint Corinth is the vision that a Chrysalis had when observing a Firefly in the center of the barley fields. The oracles at Dodona were performed by interpreting the sounds of the sacred oak and the flight of pigeons. In the middle of the 4th century BC., the athenian Demón mentions another tradition on the oracle of Dodona: he related that from the ceiling of the temple of Zeus hung a series of cauldrons or tripods closely together. Since the temple lacked walls, the wind beat the cauldrons and its sound was what had to be interpreted by the priests or priestesses who appropriated their non-transferable powers, creating a cosmogony of appropriation of illegitimate powers, aggressively changing the destiny of those who came closer to the oracle. Event that was marked in the last minute of the dogma, when everything leaned towards the omen of overcoming an entire almost subdued civilization of mythology turned into an imminent reality, which vividly demonstrated an environment of tangible and prosperity in Gaugamela having made a myth reality like the Dodona and its chrysalis.

It is interpreted by the priestesses, as a harbinger of the common preservation of the Egyptian and Greek theological bastions. But above all of the Dodona, who anticipated the facts, come to reappear according to the forces of nature in Guagamela, which he would risk in 331 BC. C. In all those faithful to Vernarth, presuming to be always loyal in the first and last line, when the oracle entered them by the temples and stole their entrails with doves, later it deposited panting to all equally in the tops of the oaks getting ready to enunciate to the same oracle what was going to happen one day, that year in Gaugamela. Chrysalis hotbeds bathed in a field humor of St. Corinth were always seen fluttering when the Oracle was invoked to the one who came in the name of Vernarth coming from Sudpichi.

To be continued… / under edition.

Minuscule millions
Shot from little cannon
Passionate, Jostle,
One and only one,
The king in thirst
Champions the cause
And strikes the target

The queen in quest
Hosts, nestles primitive cell
That splits infinitely
To finite and figure out

Cells celebrate, proliferate,
Churn, collate, calibrate,
Format, animate anatomy
In fixed flexible capsule,
As nine full moons pass by

Consul flushed out of flesh
Soul lit the light  
At its zero exit
To the shrill cry of entity
The glow begins to grow.

Minuscule millions
Shot from little cannon
Passionate, Jostle,
One and only one,
The king in thirst
Champions the cause
And strikes the target

The queen in quest
Hosts, nestles primitive cell
That splits infinitely
To finite and figure out

Cells celebrate, proliferate,
Churn, collate, calibrate,
Format, animate anatomy
In fixed flexible capsule,
As nine full moons pass by

Consul flushed out of flesh
Soul lit the light  
At its zero exit
To the shrill cry of entity
The glow begins to grow.

(Le lézard sur les ruines de Rome.)

Un jour, seul dans le Colisée,
Ruine de l'orgueil romain,
Sur l'herbe de sang arrosée
Je m'assis, Tacite à la main.

Je lisais les crimes de Rome,
Et l'empire à l'encan vendu,
Et, pour élever un seul homme,
L'univers si bas descendu.

Je voyais la plèbe idolâtre,
Saluant les triomphateurs,
Baigner ses yeux sur le théâtre
Dans le sang des gladiateurs.

Sur la muraille qui l'incruste,
Je recomposais lentement
Les lettres du nom de l'Auguste
Qui dédia le monument.

J'en épelais le premier signe :
Mais, déconcertant mes regards,
Un lézard dormait sur la ligne
Où brillait le nom des Césars.

Seul héritier des sept collines,
Seul habitant de ces débris,
Il remplaçait sous ces ruines
Le grand flot des peuples taris.

Sorti des fentes des murailles,
Il venait, de froid engourdi,
Réchauffer ses vertes écailles
Au contact du bronze attiédi.

Consul, César, maître du monde,
Pontife, Auguste, égal aux dieux,
L'ombre de ce reptile immonde
Éclipsait ta gloire à mes yeux !

La nature a son ironie
Le livre échappa de ma main.
Ô Tacite, tout ton génie
Raille moins fort l'orgueil humain !

I want to rhyme,
As a snake wants to lie,
With such antiquated works as The Creation of Man,
Somehow, once perceived beautiful, should line bedpans,
If I go out and see a stream,
And hear its babbling in my dreams,
Soon becomes shouting abrasive noise,
And now, with age, I hope to never hear its voice,
The Evil Birds and their hellish songs,
May consul mere children, but me no long’,
For I have matured past such childish delight,
And would shudder to hear a robin in flight,
And no matter how well a work may seem produced,
This outdated refuse I refuse to be seduced.

Mom I know you think
You're angry now
But maybe this will help you
I know you thought
I'd never amount to anything
Even after becoming a teamleader
At the age of 23

Even though you still don't
Believe it of me
Now that I'm one
Of your supervisors
Mrs Governess
So it's time I tell you a few things

I started going out
At the age of 14
I know you thought I was
Staying with my sister
And I really was
But... You know.

I lost my virginity
6 months before you found out
I've had more than one accident
You know aside from the one
That you know of
But to be honest,
I kind of blame you
For never wanting to talk about it
That's not going to
Make it stop from happening

It was me who broke in to the cellar
Sorry I left my keys at home
You know... Even after
You installed that wooden thing
And removed the doorknob
After I did it the first time
You know... To make sure
I wouldn't do it again

I was not selling my body
When I didn't come home
All summer and the easter vacation
I was with the Consul's daughter
Smoking, drinking and getting high
We broke in to some
Abandonned houses
And set a few trash cans on fire

We stole her dad's car
Well they stole, I stood on street
Telling the other cars to turn around
We also stole Pedro's car
Nobody had a driver's license
And there were 6 passengers
I violated a few christian statues
And made out in a confessional

I used to come an hour late
To school on mondays
So I could cash my cheque
At the bank
You know... From the cleaning job
That I did after school
Which is how I got all the money
And no, dark street corners
Had nothing to do with it

We got in to a fight on the bussstation
And almost again
When a girl threatened my sister

Are you still mad
About me quitting
My current job?

From mayhem, chaos and madness-
    I glimpsed a silver lining...
Got off work late,
~changed shifts
          to avoid an insane ex.
The street was empty
Inescapable!
Grabbed from behind-
      forcing me into his car.
         I fight,
            I scream-
I know if He gets me in the car
         I’m dead….
Two in the morning
        Not many around to hear…
A Good Samaritan summoned police.
He was arrested-
       So was I - for disturbing the peace…
The rest was a blur
Confused
     upset
         frightened…
The cell was curiously clean
      very white
         sterile  
            surreal
I was alone
     I felt my soul had been violated …
Through my tears I noticed
       An officer kept walking past
Looking into the small window
     of that cell of confinement…
Two, three maybe six or more passes-
       ‘til he let himself in.
My face was tear stained
     eyes swollen
         Looking very disheveled
Inevitable result - life or death struggle.
Chuck’s voice was low,
And in a strange way – comforting…
I don’t all remember the words
Just the emotion…
“I work with the dregs of society…"
    I knew he was trying to consul me
         but most of what he said
            was lost in the confusion in my mind ....
"... So seldom do I see
Such a beautiful butterfly…”

Chuck leaves… but returns
       With my things
“Let’s go – I’ll get you home safe..”

I was taught to mistrust Whites,
The earlier arrest reinforced that fear-
Yet this tall,
      handsome
           red-head
             Some 25 years my senior
Looked after me-
From that day ‘til I left
The Puget Sound
He protected,
     Safeguarded
         Nurtured
             and loved me!

I.

Toujours lui ! Lui partout ! - Ou brûlante ou glacée,
Son image sans cesse ébranle ma pensée.
Il verse à mon esprit le souffle créateur.
Je tremble, et dans ma bouche abondent les paroles
Quand son nom gigantesque, entouré d'auréoles,
Se dresse dans mon vers de toute sa hauteur.

Là, je le vois, guidant l'obus aux bonds rapides,
Là, massacrant le peuple au nom des régicides,
Là, soldat, aux tribuns arrachant leurs pouvoirs,
Là, consul, jeune et fier, amaigri par des veilles
Que des rêves d'empire emplissaient de merveilles,
Pâle sous ses longs cheveux noirs.

Puis, empereur puissant, dont la tête s'incline,
Gouvernant un combat du haut de la colline,
Promettant une étoile à ses soldats joyeux,
Faisant signe aux canons qui vomissent les flammes,
De son âme à la guerre armant six cent mille âmes,
Grave et serein, avec un éclair dans les yeux.

Puis, pauvre prisonnier, qu'on raille et qu'on tourmente,
Croisant ses bras oisifs sur son sein qui fermente,
En proie aux geôliers vils comme un vil criminel,
Vaincu, chauve, courbant son front noir de nuages,
Promenant sur un roc où passent les orages
Sa pensée, orage éternel.

Qu'il est grand, là surtout ! quand, puissance brisée,
Des porte-clefs anglais misérable risée,
Au sacre du malheur il retrempe ses droits,
Tient au bruit de ses pas deux mondes en haleine,
Et, mourant de l'exil, gêné dans Sainte-Hélène,
Manque d'air dans la cage où l'exposent les rois !

Qu'il est grand à cette heure où, prêt à voir Dieu même,
Son œil qui s'éteint roule une larme suprême !
Il évoque à sa mort sa vieille armée en deuil,
Se plaint à ses guerriers d'expirer solitaire,
Et, prenant pour linceul son manteau militaire,
Du lit de camp passe au cercueil !

II.

À Rome, où du Sénat hérite le conclave,
À l'Elbe, aux monts blanchis de neige ou noirs de lave,
Au menaçant Kremlin, à l'Alhambra riant,
Il est partout ! - Au Nil, je le rencontre encore.
L'Egypte resplendit des feux de son aurore ;
Son astre impérial se lève à l'orient.

Vainqueur, enthousiaste, éclatant de prestiges,
Prodige, il étonna la terre des prodiges
Les vieux scheiks vénéraient l'émir jeune et prudent,
Le peuple redoutait ses armes inouïes ;
Sublime, il apparut aux tribus éblouies
Comme un Mahomet d'Occident.

Leur féerie a déjà réclamé son histoire ;
La tente de l'arabe est pleine de sa gloire.
Tout bédouin libre était son hardi compagnon ;
Les petits enfants, l'œil tourné vers nos rivages,
Sur un tambour français règlent leurs pas sauvages,
Et les ardents chevaux hennissent à son nom.

Parfois il vient, porté sur l'ouragan numide,
Prenant pour piédestal la grande pyramide,
Contempler les déserts, sablonneux océans.
Là, son ombre, éveillant le sépulcre sonore,
Comme pour la bataille, y ressuscite encore
Les quarante siècles géants.

Il dit : Debout ! Soudain chaque siècle se lève,
Ceux-ci portant le sceptre et ceux-là ceints du glaive,
Satrapes, pharaons, mages, peuple glacé ;
Immobiles, poudreux, muets, sa voix les compte ;
Tous semblent, adorant son front qui les surmonte,
Faire à ce roi des temps une cour du passé.

Ainsi tout, sous les pas de l'homme ineffaçable,
Tout devient monument ; il passe sur le sable,
Mais qu'importe qu'Assur de ses flots soit couvert,
Que l'aquilon sans cesse y fatigue son aile !
Son pied colossal laisse une trace éternelle
Sur le front mouvant du désert.

III.

Histoire, poésie, il joint du pied vos cimes.
Eperdu, je ne puis dans ces mondes sublimes
Remuer rien de grand sans toucher à son nom ;
Oui, quand tu m'apparais, pour le culte ou le blâme,
Les chants volent pressés sur mes lèvres de flamme,
Napoléon ! soleil dont je suis le Memnon !

Tu domines notre âge ; ange ou démon, qu'importe ?
Ton aigle dans son vol, haletants, nous emporte.
L'œil même qui te fuit te retrouve partout.
Toujours dans nos tableaux tu jettes ta grande ombre ;
Toujours Napoléon, éblouissant et sombre,
Sur le seuil du siècle est debout.

Ainsi, quand, du Vésuve explorant le domaine,
De Naples à Portici l'étranger se promène,
Lorsqu'il trouble, rêveur, de ses pas importuns
Ischia, de ses fleurs embaumant l'onde heureuse
Dont le bruit, comme un chant de sultane amoureuse,
Semble une voix qui vole au milieu des parfums ;

Qu'il hante de Paestum l'auguste colonnade,
Qu'il écoute à Pouzzol la vive sérénade
Chantant la tarentelle au pied d'un mur toscan ;
Qu'il éveille en passant cette cité momie,
Pompéi, corps gisant d'une ville endormie,
Saisie un jour par le volcan ;

Qu'il erre au Pausilippe avec la barque agile
D'où le brun marinier hante Tasse à Virgile ;
Toujours, sous l'arbre vert, sur les lits de gazon,
Toujours il voit, du sein des mers et des prairies,
Du haut des caps, du bord des presqu'îles fleuries,
Toujours le noir géant qui fume à l'horizon !

Décembre 1827.

Of Wernarth's three mirrors, the second was stationed at Cape Prassonissi; on wings of Prosas de Rodas who were waiting for him in Kímolos; silvering in the extreme south of the western Cyclades. Following him behind Poliegos, who is on Prassonissi. Knowing that here the irrationality of his antiscientific prose, channeling reform and august prose in Hyper-meditation, will take you through the aureoles of the industrial poetic volcanoes of gems, following this journey in the necropolis of Hellenika, in familiarity with the harpies. Before being sunk, the prose was found to the west of the island that Ellinika is mentioned today. Here is where Wernarth with constant suffering in his chest writes the prose in the necropolis of Hellenika, from his oratory vortex:

“I have to become a hidden ghost that closes the taverns, where it smells like a cimarrón of a trough of live gunpowder, of shelves of foreign implants, outlining parallels of Kímolos in its rigor that descends from Taurus. I must here, in these rigorous words of darkness, common in something belonging to the feather of a hummingbird in the midst of the storm of the brave steps that tell me to get to Prassonisi and the epigraph of the berries collected in the retreats of the defeated harpies, with a voice convinced of what makes them aware of the prose, more who compulsively covers them from the darkness where they are born with light and incipient accent. I have to build the intuitive of parallelism that sinks entire firmaments of poetry, rebuilding itself on itself."

"Here I am sunk that I am in the unknown... Seeing myself only in a few, who have to find me in their magnitudes and sanctities that sprout beyond Poliegos, who remain to receive me with bells and trumpets...

Here I am with everyone, some together with all the obeisances, and with each latch Aghio Andreas… of Saint Andrew jumping over all the crypto lines of Kímolos, husband of the daughter of Taurus, Sidis, noble and majestic inhabitants among the mansions of the abbreviation of the storms in Wahlheim, with a juxtaposed desire to inseminate *******, between Etrestlian creatures and the immateriality of the Hellenika necropolis.

Lotte, look over the abyss that unleashes the death of Young Greece..., but re-alive in the prose that sleeps in the chapters that are about to be redeemed from the powers of those who swallow figs on high tide east of Hermes, with two coins of gold in each hand without parliament...

Here is my storehouse, full of baskets to take to the gorges of Before Christ, reflected in the fountains of their undefeated anathemas and psalms with bulls and offices... in anarchies of loves lost in the struggles to redeem Hecate's heirs, of my harpy who looks at the second mirror...

The second mirror..., the aversions of passion, whose participle is anticipated in the corridor of all who attend to the din of their own grief, of which in noun was evidenced when Wernarth with her steed Alikanto went to Werther's funeral, on the day that in Wahlheim the graffiti of the gloomy mists, gave the noun to the prose and verb, to all the conditions of Wernarth's pain, pashkein "Greek suffering”...

On the other side of the Rhine estuary, reflections of the first two mirrors, there are cults of reversal shudders, congratulations that plague the taste bond with bitterness..., which lives close to the acrimony that transitions from sweet-bitter to bitter-acidic, to who treasures the goodness and salubrious premises of a good mirror full of composite pieces, and that have never been cracked….

Court of the three mirrors in the crypt of Werther..., says no more than regret, the acquiescence of the consent of the legal guardians, giving him for alive even though he is dead... “what hypothetical laws affirm a man who wears clothes of a living heart in a body that you saw a soul of irrational officialdom preexisting...

Seventeen angiosperm raptors flew from the high clarions with seventy-four of Wernarth's lamentations, sophisms of Greco-Germanic essences vinegar, in his hands of hoplite blood that writes illustrated verses of Aryan and Hellenic plant, of never cloudiness or Etrestlian logic, which she wanders alone through supposedly illustrative anti-romantic socio-bourgeois prostration in the lodge of the camaraderie of the wise foolish fingers and brave with their weapons of death, in her hands of prose that tastes like a pompous reading of loneliness and vagueness of abstract illogical but redeemed Picnic passion and expiration.

The verse gives to the stanza what is leftover in the poetry and what in the central verse arrhythmia of its cadence it gives to the prose, as a vital instinct..., with glory and literary destitution, that's how the grunts and eyebrows of the ejaculators of successful love fall under the insidious morality of Wernarth-Werthiana.

Here is the ill-fated light-dark episode of Rhodes, the ethical pandemic over the heartbeat, more than an ideo-logic, frustrated with poorly acquired logic in dialysis from other prose that is not sonnetized.

They are the spacious, multi-different, of theories that incriminate the verb to retentive of reactionary policies with a neat effect, of which effective life is to fall asleep in the silos of consciousness in a nap behind the back of the worst dream...

The purely assertive, with another the convictions of the extra-bourgeois class, with a certain tinge of drum major before the hated intelligentsia. Here is the new man, in the tremulous sound of others who identify with vital love, subsidizing understanding sapiens...

Wernarth destroys treasures, which do not fit in a storehouse, being part of what is leftover from the surplus, for true socialized and compulsive ones, in reflections of those who march with their heart of chaste origin, evolution, and withdrawal of Hellenic actions.

Here I am with my argument in humanity, with a bouquet of flowers returned to the sender..., we are or I am enlightened, if the dependencies of sunsets Werthians grow, with projectiles in our souls without leaving.

My delay does not exceed my progress, every day I am more reclusive of rational delay, and a simple voice that keeps silent so as not to wake the King! Here I am with my Greek roulette, one of its edges points in tragedy in the Dorus lances on the temples of the creator Wernarth, with dramas of thirst and passion, but having all the love of solitude.

I speak to the gods in their language, but they answer me with repeated nouns, I reiterate them with apothegms, and they slide me through their crowns..., who one of them does not know who I really am, that if I am more historical and comprehensive than themselves in matters of love.

I am Omni Wernarthian, I accompany those who do not sleep and do not tire because they are my pilaster, they are my bed when they wake up from my dreams resting in their dreams of utopia that calm the currents of the disguised Prassionissi temporal.

Whatever the rival destiny, it will not be to leave alone for the Lette, made piece and scarce, in the piece of a whole man that I carry in me, Omni Messianic, opposed to the distances that linens spend on whoever wears the gauze in the defenders of these little princes, who border on the pauperism of their wandering singer hormones.

My multi-versology, and urgency of oscillation, is locking the intruder, which undermines the one who offers and does not give pause to the one who symptomatically requires it…, Lotte; it annihilates the struggles of those who confine them to guilt and psychological-matriarchal authority.

I have to progress with overtimes, while the sun in Rhodes asks Zeus to illuminate me more, for an enthusiastic sentence to be his master and lord because he was before all of us who were his poet's servant subjects.

My successive oracles allow me to go further than close, I cannot get out, but nevertheless, vehemently, I slide through the winning marks of those who institute the freedom of a scientific love, to a divisive love, of eghotic economy, that shapes the iron delirium sacrosanct, and the composition of the reciprocated enmity.

I am vague, but with flammable passional decrees, of my nature as a wolf and single parent, in the shape of a man in a different personality, as a phobic wolf..., here is not to belong to this century..., reverted to an uncertain meditation...

The rule and formula of my love is the intensity that makes me abhorrent, if I lose my control, say, the world that I represent here ends... the truth of my maxim, as nothing fits in everything, I do not inspire what does not replace the whole…

I live in a half-realism, of entire externalities that make up the rules that make me a slave to austerity, that runs after simplicity…, I walk through clouds that only let me fall in the breaks of their metaphysical and rigid odes.

My basic involution is not intense; it is more than a stable system of poetic verbal sacredness, with great movement, of ethics that haunts the idiomatic devotees of the awakening of the renewed personality, but with open arms in limbo...

As an individual he foreshadows collective miraculous mysteries, contradicting the corrupt purpose of a man, who dies behind bars of his own acquiescent death. Greco-motor and promoter of systematic divinities, in the hands of magicians or millers with the instinct of a suicide ministry, even without being prepared, trying…!

Here is my dialectic, if I bring out the prosaic passion; it hurts me by giving me false lessons, only done in my field to work. Wernarth, is a believer, more believing in Werther; Lotte consul of disbelief, in the hands of the peasants to rub her abolition as a maiden, before the wiles with mendacious devotion on the harpoons of the suffocating victim...

Harpies are atheists, just as atheism martyrs them as immortal, even not giving it into the hands of their failures, Wernath enters Olympus with his steed, and it venerates him, and mythology opens its myths to him, and he despises them!

Because I have to commit suicide if here in Rhodes they sing the prose of Kímolos for me, happening at their table of superb menus and portents, with his novel that is graced with my lantern that gives the cause of light, before the storm is folly before a society Olympic.

My drama is hoarding and describing, the measurements in brief scenes, do not fill those that should not be measured if I fall in love with my creatures, they self-eliminate, before the boast of the ****** right - late Werther in chains.

I am not resigned to my agreement with Zeus to divide the world equally, but I will supply myself with cults and friends on the stage of the confinement, as a liberator exclaiming unharmed...

I am not lost in my revolution, I am percussion in sounds against my own trials, enraging myself at others with failed feelings, perhaps in a felt preparatory and not being, but aware of the outline before my bishop's departure.

My triumph is to share the enthronement with the Werthian world, over, and without initials or termination of legal conditions, with the goal of artistic lines, with the art of dialogue, with the tetra-winged Lepidoptera silhouettes, four times vivified.

My parapsychological regression between flowers and rose bushes I have not conferred on the augur, nor did I doubt an appendage of a microsecond device and divine inspiration, to conjure them to the last bastion of something or someone that cannot hold me back.

Idyllically, transit between the nobility and the plebs, in drama and comedy, but my explosion does not have to fear great distances, my parts being plagued in colorful themes and verses throughout the desolate world, burning in the embers of my beloved….

But my God, who is my everything today, made me have a colloquial friendship with my courting, but the imaginary…, she doesn't know… !, but I am still enthusiastic, I continue to venerate the possibility of making a mistake trying to be an enemy friend.

I bring rings in my pocket close to my essence, but a good part of that has a conflict of truth and fear, which accuses me with which finger I have to braid myself, and I accuse myself of measuring my words of seductive ruin and contrition.

Today it is up to us all to die because I will do it for everyone. I have to return due to the fatality of an imperishable reason, before a nebulous tutelage that germinates only in past springs, what a great conflict! But what a great solution, for someone who flourishes between loves and conflicts...

My ranks have deserted its worst category; it suffocates and does not move the feeling, only the heroic predestination, which moves my transit to Rhodes, between feelings..., for and from others, who will never be an award ruling, on my sword Xiphos!

The heroism of love is to go beyond the imperishable madness of anti-heroism, with the spirit of a clear heroine and undeniable jurisprudence of love before any pact with Leviathan..., it is to be hoped that they will not forget to make a copy of my Contract!

« Mais que je suis donc heureux d'être né en Chine ! Je possède une maison pour m'abriter,
j'ai de quoi manger et boire, j'ai toutes les commodités de l'existence, j'ai des habits, des
bonnets et une multitude d'agréments ; en vérité, la félicité la plus grande est mon partage ! »
THIEN-CI-KHI, LETTRÉ CHINOIS.


Il est certains bourgeois, prêtres du dieu Boutique,
Plus voisins de Chrysès que de Caton d'Utique,
Mettant par-dessus tout la rente et le coupon,
Qui, voguant à la Bourse et tenant un harpon,
Honnêtes gens d'ailleurs, mais de la grosse espèce,
Acceptent Phalaris par amour pour leur caisse,
Et le taureau d'airain à cause du veau d'or.
Ils ont voté. Demain ils voteront encor.
Si quelque libre écrit entre leurs mains s'égare,
Les pieds sur les chenets et fumant son cigare,
Chacun de ces votants tout bas raisonne ainsi :
Ce livre est fort choquant. De quel droit celui-ci
Est-il généreux, ferme et fier, quand je suis lâche ?
En attaquant monsieur Bonaparte, on me fâche.
Je pense comme lui que c'est un gueux ; pourquoi
Le dit-il ? Soit, d'accord, Bonaparte est sans foi
Ni loi ; c'est un parjure, un brigand, un faussaire,
C'est vrai ; sa politique est armée en corsaire
Il a banni jusqu'à des juges suppléants ;
Il a coupé leur bourse aux princes d'Orléans
C'est le pire gredin qui soit sur cette terre ;
Mais puisque j'ai voté pour lui, l'on doit se taire.
Ecrire contre lui, c'est me blâmer au fond ;
C'est me dire : voilà comment les braves font
Et c'est une façon, à nous qui restons neutres,
De nous faire sentir que nous sommes des pleutres.
J'en conviens, nous avons une corde au poignet.
Que voulez-vous ? la Bourse allait mal ; on craignait
La république rouge, et même un peu la rose
Il fallait bien finir par faire quelque chose
On trouve ce coquin, on le fait empereur ;
C'est tout simple. On voulait éviter la terreur,
Le spectre de monsieur Romieu, la jacquerie
On s'est réfugié dans cette escroquerie.
Or, quand on dit du mal de ce gouvernement,
Je me sens chatouillé désagréablement.
Qu'on fouaille avec raison cet homme, c'est possible
Mais c'est m'insinuer à moi, bourgeois paisible
Qui fis ce scélérat empereur ou consul,
Que j'ai dit oui par peur et vivat par calcul.
Je trouve impertinent, parbleu, qu'on me le dise.
M'étant enseveli dans cette couardise,
Il me déplaît qu'on soit intrépide aujourd'hui,
Et je tiens pour affront le courage d'autrui. »

Penseurs, quand vous marquez au front l'homme punique
Qui de la loi sanglante arracha la tunique,
Quand vous vengez le peuple à la gorge saisi,
Le serment et le droit, vous êtes, songez-y,
Entre Sbogar qui règne et Géronte qui vote ;
Et votre plume ardente, anarchique, indévote,
Démagogique, impie, attente d'un côté
À ce crime ; de l'autre, à cette lâcheté.

Jersey, novembre 1852.

Of Wernarth's three mirrors, the second was stationed at Cape Prassonissi; on wings of Prosas de Rodas who were waiting for him in Kímolos; silvering in the extreme south of the western Cyclades. Following him behind Poliegos, who is on Prassonissi. Knowing that here the irrationality of his antiscientific prose, channeling reform and august prose in Hyper-meditation, will take you through the aureoles of the industrial poetic volcanoes of gems, following this journey in the necropolis of Hellenika, in familiarity with the harpies . Before being sunk, the prose prose were found to the west of the island that Ellinika is mentioned today. Here is where Wernarth with a constant suffering in his chest writes the prose in the necropolis of Hellenika, from his oratory vortex:
“I have to become a hidden ghost that closes the taverns, where it smells like a cimarrón of a trough of live gunpowder, of shelves of foreign implants, outlining parallels of Kímolos in its rigor that descends from Taurus. I must here, in these rigorous words of darkness, common in something belonging to the feather of a hummingbird in the midst of the storm of the brave steps that tell me to get to Prassonisi and the epigraph of the berries collected in the retreats of the defeated harpies, with a voice convinced of what makes them aware of the prose, more who compulsively covers them from the darkness where they are born with light and incipient accent. I have to build the intuitive of parallelism that sinks entire firmaments of poetry, rebuilding itself on itself.
"Here I am sunk that I am in the unknown ... Seeing myself only in a few, who have to find me in their magnitudes and sanctities that sprout beyond Poliegos, who remain to receive me with bells and trumpets ...

Here I am with everyone, some together with all the obeisances, and with each latch Aghio Andreas… of Saint Andrew jumping over all the crypto lines of Kímolos, husband of the daughter of Taurus, Sidis, noble and majestic inhabitants among the mansions of the abbreviation of the storms in Wahlheim, with a juxtaposed desire to inseminate *******, between Etrestlian creatures and the immateriality of the Hellenika necropolis.

Lotte, look over the abyss that unleashes the death of Young Greece ..., but re-alive in the prose that sleeps in the chapters that are about to be redeemed from the powers of those who swallow figs on high tide east of Hermes, with two coins of gold in each hand without parliament ...

Here is my storehouse, full of baskets to take to the gorges of Before Christ, reflected in the fountains of their undefeated anathemas and psalms with bulls and offices ... in anarchies of loves lost in the struggles to redeem Hecate's heirs, of my harpy who looks at the second mirror ...

Second mirror ..., the aversions of passion, whose participle is anticipated in the corridor of all who attend to the din of their own grief, of which in noun was evidenced when Wernarth with her steed Alikanto went to Werther's funeral, on the day that in Wahlheim the graffiti of the gloomy mists, gave the noun to the prose and verb, to all the conditions of Wernarth's pain, pashkein "Greek suffering”...

On the other side of the Rhine estuary, reflections of the first two mirrors, there are cults of reversal shudders, congratulations that plague the taste bond with bitterness ..., which lives close to the acrimony that transitions from sweet-bitter to bitter-acidic, to who treasures the goodness and salubrious premises of a good mirror full of composite pieces, and that have never been cracked….

Court of the three mirrors in the crypt of Werther ..., says no more than regret, acquiescence of the consent of the legal guardians, giving him for alive even though he is dead ... “what hypothetical laws affirm a man who wears clothes of a living heart in a body that you saw a soul of irrational officialdom preexisting ...

Seventeen angiosperm raptors flew from the high clarions with seventy-four of Wernarth's lamentations, sophisms of Greco-Germanic essences vinegars, in his hands of hoplite blood that writes illustrated verses of Aryan and Hellenic plant, of never cloudiness or Etrestlian logic, which she wanders alone through supposedly illustrative anti-romantic socio-bourgeois prostration in the lodge of the camaraderie of the wise foolish fingers and brave with their weapons of death, in her hands of prose that tastes like a pompous reading of loneliness and vagueness of abstract illogical, but redeemed Picnic passion and expiration.

The verse gives to the stanza what is left over in the poetry and what in the central verse arrhythmia of its cadence it gives to the prose, as a vital instinct ..., with glory and literary destitution, that's how the grunts and eyebrows of the ejaculators of successful love fall under the insidious morality of Wernarth-Werthiana.

Here is the ill-fated light-dark episode of Rhodes, the ethical pandemic over the heartbeat, more than an ideo-logic, frustrated with poorly acquired logic in dialysis from other prose that are not sonnetized.

They are the spacious, multi-different, of theories that incriminate the verb to retentive of reactionary policies with a neat effect, of which effective life is to fall asleep in the silos of consciousness in a nap behind the back of the worst dream ...

The purely assertive, with another the convictions of the extra-bourgeois class, with a certain tinge of drum major before the hated intelligentsia. Here is the new man, in the tremulous sound of others who identify with vital love, subsidizing understanding  sapiens...

Wernarth destroys treasures, which do not fit in a storehouse, being part of what is left over from the surplus, for true socialized and compulsive ones, in reflections of those who march with their heart of chaste origin, evolution and withdrawal of Hellenic actions.

Here I am with my argument in humanity, with a bouquet of flowers returned to the sender ..., we are or I am enlightened, if the dependencies of sunsets Werthians grow, with projectiles in our souls without leaving.

My delay does not exceed my progress, every day I am more reclusive of rational delay, and a simple voice that keeps silent so as not to wake the King! Here I am with my Greek roulette, one of its edges points in tragedy in the Dorus lances on the temples of the creator Wernarth, with dramas of thirst and passion, but having all the love of solitude.

I speak to the gods in their language, but they answer me with repeated nouns, I reiterate them with apothegms, and they slide me through their crowns ..., who one of them does not know who I really am, that if I am more historical and comprehensive than themselves in matters of love.

I am omni Wernarthian, I accompany those who do not sleep and do not tire, because they are my pilaster, they are my bed when they wake up from my dreams resting in their dreams of utopia that calm the currents of the disguised Prassionissi temporal.

Whatever the rival destiny, it will not be to leave alone for the Lette, made piece and scarce, in the piece of a whole man that I carry in me, omni Messiano, opposed to the distances that linens spend on whoever wears the gauze in the defenders of these little princes, who border on the pauperism of their wandering singer hormones.

My multi-versology, and urgency of oscillation, is locking the intruder, which undermines the one who offers and does not give pause to the one who symptomatically requires it…, Lotte; it annihilates the struggles of those who confine them to guilt and psychological-matriarchal authority.

I have to progress with over times, while the sun in Rhodes asks Zeus to illuminate me more, for an enthusiastic sentence to be his master and lord, because he was before all of us who were his poets servant subjects.

My successive oracles allow me to go further than close, I cannot get out, but nevertheless vehemently, I slide through the winning marks of those who institute the freedom of a scientific love, to a divisive love, of egotic economy, that shapes the iron delirium sacrosanct, and the composition of the reciprocated enmity.

I am vague, but with flammable passional decrees, of my nature as a wolf and single parent, in the shape of a man in a different personality, as a phobic wolf ..., here is not to belong to this century ..., reverted to an uncertain meditation ...

The rule and formula of my love is the intensity that makes me abhorrent, if I lose my control, say, the world that I represent here ends ... the truth of my maxim, as nothing fits in everything, I do not inspire what does not replace the whole…

I live in a half-realism, of entire externalities that make up the rules that make me a slave to austerity, that runs after simplicity…, I walk through clouds that only let me fall in the breaks of their metaphysical and rigid odes.

My basic involution is not intense; it is more than a stable system of poetic verbal sacredness, with great movement, of ethics that haunts the idiomatic devotees of the awakening of the renewed personality, but with open arms in limbo...

As an individual he foreshadows collective miraculous mysteries, contradicting the corrupt purpose of a man, who dies behind bars of his own acquiescent death. Greco-motor and promoter of systematic divinities, in the hands of magicians or millers with the instinct of a suicide ministry, even without being prepared, trying…!

Here is my dialectic, if I bring out the prosaic passion; it hurts me by giving me false lessons, only done in my field to work. Wernarth, is a believer, more believing in Werther; Lotte consul of disbelief, in the hands of the peasants to rub her abolition as a maiden, before the wiles with mendacious devotion on the harpoons of the suffocating victim...

Harpies are atheists, just as atheism martyrs them as immortal, even not giving it into the hands of their failures, Wernath enters Olympus with his steed, and it venerates him, and mythology opens its myths to him, and he despises them!

Because I have to commit suicide if here in Rhodes they sing the prose of Kímolos for me, happening at their table of superb menus and portents, with his novel that is graced with my lantern that gives cause of light, before the storm is folly before a society olympic.

My drama is hoarding and describing, the measurements in brief scenes, do not fill those that should not be measured, if I fall in love with my creatures, they self-eliminate, before the boast of the ****** right - late Werther in chains.

I am not resigned to my agreement with Zeus to divide the world equally, but I will supply myself with cults and friends on the stage of the confinement, as a liberator exclaiming unharmed...

I am not lost in my revolution, I am percussion in sounds against my own trials, enraging myself at others with failed feelings, perhaps in a felt preparatory and not being, but aware of the outline before my bishop's departure.

My triumph is to share the enthronement with the Werthian world, over, and without initials or termination of legal conditions, with the goal of artistic lines, with the art of dialogue, with the tetra-winged Lepidoptera silhouettes, four times vivified.

My parapsychological regression between flowers and rose bushes I have not conferred on the augur, nor did I doubt an appendage of a micro second device and divine inspiration, to conjure them to the last bastion of something or someone that cannot hold me back.

Idyllically, transit between the nobility and the plebs, in drama and comedy, but my explosion does not have to fear great distances, my parts being plagued in colorful themes and verses throughout the desolate world, burning in the embers of my beloved….

But my God, who is my everything today, made me have a colloquial friendship with my courting, but the imaginary…, she doesn't know… !, but I am still enthusiastic, I continue to venerate the possibility of making a mistake trying to be an enemy friend.

I bring rings in my pocket close to my essence, but a good part of that has a conflict of truth and fear, which accuses me with which finger I have to braid myself, and I accuse myself of measuring my words of seductive ruin and contrition.

Today it is up to us all to die, because I will do it for everyone. I have to return due to the fatality of an imperishable reason, before a nebulous tutelage that germinates only in past springs, what a great conflict!  But what a great solution, of someone who flourishes between loves and conflicts...

My ranks have deserted its worst category; it suffocates and does not move the feeling, only the heroic predestination, which moves my transit to Rhodes, between feelings ..., for and from others, who will never be an award ruling, on my sword Xifos!

The heroism of love is to go beyond the imperishable madness of anti-heroism, with the spirit of a clear heroine and undeniable jurisprudence of love before any pact with Leviathan ..., it is to be hoped that they will not forget to make a copy of my Contract!

Deep down in shadows!
locked in dusky meadows...
Resides a consul;
with no one to console,
grown into a black body!
with silence as embody...
with all what's important;
she'll embrace her omnipotence.

When you swim in the bay, you must watch out for sharks
Or red tide
Or all the **** that aims to feed on you

Please be sure to know
Everybody hates you
When all they care about is themselves

They hate themselves
I hate myself
For my rejection of the notion of innate evilness

No!

Way back in the way when
They were innocent
Much like myself

You only find yourself in the consul of thives when you have fenced all your purest possessions

Your soul

Brings in the value of a pund of flesh
Cut me
Cleave my meat
Sadly you will see
It takes a lot of salt to dry the bitterness out of me

IV.

Ô noirs événements, vous fuyez dans la nuit !
L'empereur mort tomba sur l'empire détruit.
Napoléon alla s'endormir sous le saule.
Et les peuples alors, de l'un à l'autre pôle,
Oubliant le tyran, s'éprirent du héros.
Les poètes, marquant au front les rois bourreaux,
Consolèrent, pensifs, cette gloire abattue.
À la colonne veuve on rendit sa statue.
Quand on levait les yeux, on le voyait debout
Au-dessus de Paris, serein, dominant tout,
Seul, le jour dans l'azur et la nuit dans les astres.
Panthéons, on grava son nom sur vos pilastres !
On ne regarda plus qu'un seul côté des temps,
On ne se souvint plus que des jours éclatants
Cet homme étrange avait comme enivré l'histoire
La justice à l'œil froid disparut sous sa gloire ;
On ne vit plus qu'Eylau, Ulm, Arcole, Austerlitz ;
Comme dans les tombeaux des romains abolis,
On se mit à fouiller dans ces grandes années
Et vous applaudissiez, nations inclinées,
Chaque fois qu'on tirait de ce sol souverain
Ou le consul de marbre ou l'empereur d'airain !

Jersey, du 25 au 30 novembre 1852.

Un soir, dans le chemin je vis passer un homme
Vêtu d'un grand manteau comme un consul de Rome,
Et qui me semblait noir sur la clarté des cieux.
Ce passant s'arrêta, fixant sur moi ses yeux
Brillants, et si profonds, qu'ils en étaient sauvages,
Et me dit : « J'ai d'abord été, dans les vieux âges,
Une haute montagne emplissant l'horizon ;
Puis, âme encore aveugle et brisant ma prison,
Je montai d'un degré dans l'échelle des êtres,
Je fus un chêne, et j'eus des autels et des prêtres,
Et je jetai des bruits étranges dans les airs ;
Puis je fus un lion rêvant dans les déserts,
Parlant à la nuit sombre avec sa voix grondante ;
Maintenant, je suis homme, et je m'appelle Dante. »

Juillet 1843.

.before i am done with this escapade, i will try to stick travis' - walking down the hill on repeat for a while... to settle for the mantra... something that needs a repetition in the background, before the final collage... and before... what settles as dust from burnt old father oak and my body too... or perhaps... the inter-connectivity that's shared between ethnic minorities: the kashubians, the sorbians, the navajo, the dene suline, the inupiaq, zuni hopa and the dogrib... the Łacinka & Łatynka (belarusian and ukranian) respectively... Łacina: Latin... as it is known on the vicinity of the old capital of Cracow... simply from a shared letter... no more a hello than a plain disregard for twitter poetics... or instagram: captions... sometimes you just want a chicken drum-stick of words... and the bone and the cartilege and the heads filled with marrow... which is more... than some toothpick escapade... well... Winchester is so old for anyone to remember... and London is so nuanced that even Warsaw makes the count... but Cracow sits... humbled... when snow falls... there's the actual snow... and there's the mistaken snow of the ash from auschwitz.

once - when i was much younger - and my voice
was but a crude and feeble whimper -
nothing that could compare itself to a butterfly
in haiku - i would be found trying to forcibly imitate
anything immediately read -
what a naive misadventure upon every turn...
every poem became: as if an act borrowed from
Macbeth - quiet simply - a young man's jealousy...

i can only now gratify myself and the audience that...
i have matured beyond that hot-headedness... former...
now? i rather simply translate the work -
as i am sure that something will be lost -
however good the translation might be...
or the original text...
here's my first attempt...

zbigniew herbert - kaligula (1st attempt
and the last ettempt)

/
          while reading old chronicles, poems and biographies
Mr Cogito sometimes experiences feelings
of a physical presence of the people long ago dead

Caligula (is speaking / speaks):

from among all the citizens of Rome
i loved only one
Incitatus - a horse

when he walked into the senate
the unblemished toga of his fur
shone immaculately among that of
the cowardly murderers' sitched with purple

Incitatus was full of advantages
he never spoke
a stoic's nature
i think that at night in the stables he read
philosophers

i loved his so much that one day i decided
to crucify him
but his noble anatomy objected to this

he accepted the dignity of consul indifferently
he held authority the best
in that he didn't hold any authority

attempts to persuade him to have permanent
****** relations with my dear wife Caesonia failed
therefore a line of caesars - centaurs
was never created

which is why Rome fell

i decided to appoint him as a god
yet on the ninth day prior to the days of February
(chaerea) cornelius sabinus and other fools
obstructed the intentions of this godly work...

he accepted the news of my death peacefully

he was thrown out of the palace
and sentenced to exile

he endured this blow with dignity

he died without any hiers
slaughtered by a thick-skinned butcher from the vicinity
of Anzio

Taticus is silent
about the posthumous fate of his meat
                                                                ­               /

perhaps looking at the original -
would help... oh more surely...
but prior to the original...
i can see that certain peoples of asia...
who have a culinary superiority complex...
who hide behind a spice grenade...
have an aversion to cabbage...
and it's like that irish love potatoes
and the slavic people love cabbage joke...
don't mind me morphed into a pawn...
the persians abhored and still abhor spicy
food from bengali bush monkey regions
of the raj...
persians have a palette for sour foods...
can you imagine eating a hot-dog...
without choked onions, chillies...
sauerkraut and some sweet gherkins...
mustard and ketchup?
i can't... then again: a cow is more than just
milk... mother goat...
but there comes a time when you can...
appreciate the culinary superiority of the blue indians...
then a minute later call it: a kitchen of black cardamom
stink!
believe me... black cardamom stinks...

but a problem with sauerkraut is a problem
with persian tastes...
sour... sooner rather than later i'll see...
sauerkraut added as the german delight...
in an ottoman kebab wrap...
the sourness could cut through the fatty mustang
of the lamb... somehow...
because the pickled chillies are not enough...
and the raw spanish onions do very little...
the blue indians throw "beef" around
an appreciation of sauerkraut... i just give them
the one-liner: black cardamom and...
the ultimate dye... turmeric...
it will stain, anything... plastic, metal,
ceramics: oddly enough no... and glass...
spice barons, eh?  

the original... but it's not exactly the original...
since... i do borrow from"elsewhere":
sound distinction that exfoliate in the meaning...

after all... i did graffiti the original with
some cyrilic...
sz = š = ш = (sh)ape ≠ ś = sie- prefix: if śιe
cz = č = ч = (ch)urn ≠ ć = cie- prefix: if ćιe
ż (= rz) = ž = ж ≠ ź
(also noted in french: via je suis...
   oddly enough... it sounds like жe swée...
but looks like: je suis ce et cette)...
ń ≈ ñ
ch = x
nonetheless...
or more importantly...
c = ц ≠ c = s = ç...
an no... there's no translation
of a cedilla A(ą) nor a cedilla E(ę)...
a bit easier when it comes to...
ł = w
            but... w = v...
so ł(h)en... the surd hatch...
eyes closed: mouth agape!
no "v" given how the greek upsilon (υ)
was sharpened into (ν):
i always thought: cute acute ó = ω: tool...
while omicron was more grave (ò)...
and up! upsilon! the u was first acute
before it became the ω in the german
umlaut (ü)...

otherwise: there's mOre to what's
later a mOvie... the elongation of:
tool... the distinction: thus pronounced...
wants to be recognißed -
the s to z to s to z interchange within
the ß: es'zett... yes... the apostrophe is "somehow"
necessary...

if the hebrews have their vowels in niqabs...
we can have our...
exfoliation of consonants and vowels...
fully exposed... nonetheless included!
with: details of the frontier!
and in them: i mark my finger in the sand
and skull among the cavern,
the rocks the... ghostly whispers that
shadows should profoundly speak...
but never do...
my shadow my ghost...
my first avenue turned should i be thinking
about a Hiroshima selfie... shadow glued
to the ******* wall... move it: chess-***...
bullet to the head...
and then two weeks... trying to die...
in a prison cell...
with one nightmare overtaking the previous
nightmare... in how...
your brain will never be:
the eyes-connected to the sponge:
mr. chikatilo...
the sponge: sorry... nothing but shrapnel...
perhaps some eyes...
but your eyes are consistently closed...
let's not mind them...

and what's because, what?
finnegans' wake: no diacritical markers...
because, what? low on ink?
if low on ink... can't help you...
but if not enough paper?
¶ (pilcrow) all the paragraphs! sardine words
onto the page!

the god awful truth was that i smoked
marijuana in england...
and... the ******* is free! upon the pretence
that you don't own a brothel...
elsewhere: namely Amsterdam...
while in Amsterdam i had a thought:
what about ******* a siamese twin
in some vacant... Tehran nightmare come true?
gang-bangers are treated better than i...
in terms of "treatment":
the best they ever gave me...
was to be left: to my own devices...
when i should have been learning german...
they sent me to the window-licker class
of c.v. writers anonymous...
because: m'ah hanging-leash of in and leash
was a bad, spotty E... with a tail!
devil's spawn... or something that would
always come from the warsaw pact...
or... coming from one: under the iron curtain...
would show... and cover the current brood...
with a change of element...
from under the iron curtain...
then unto: under the silicon curtain..

i'm sure the people have chosen their chess
pieces prior to this: *******-ramming
of the anger itching from the cranium
of a castrated bull...

mash up... no interludes...
let's keep it staccato... and... fits the purpose of...
how best lodged into form...

                   because the iota and the j are...
let's face it... forced diacritical cage-masters...
i graffitied the original...
because... it became obsolate to simply
translate and become overtly pedantic
as to why: ****** grammar was not going
to fit anglo-slav grammar...
never mind the anglo-ßaß grammar: "native"...

/ чytając stare kroniki, poematy i жywoty Pan Cogito
doświadчa czasem učucia fizyчnej obeцności
osób dawno zmarłych (tampering with a lox ness)

mówi Kaligula

spośród wszystkich obywateli Rzymu
kochałem tylko jednego
Inцitatusa - konia

kiedy wшedł do senatu
nieskazitelna toga jego sierści
l'śniła niepokalanie wśród obшytyx purpurą
tchórzliwych morderцów

Inцitatus był pełen zalet
nie przemawiał nigdy
natura stoiцka
myśłe ze noцą w stajni čytał filozofów

kochałem go tak bardzo жe pewnego dnia
postanowiłem go ukrzyzować
ale sprzeciwiała się temu jego szla(ch)etna anatomia

obojetnie p(rz)yjął godność konsula
wła(dz)e sprawował najlepiej
to znaczy nie sprawował jej w'cale

nie udało sie nakłonić go to trwałych związków miłosnych
z drogą жoną moją Caesonią
więц nie powstała niestety linia cesa(rz)y - centaurów

dłatego Rzym runął

postanoviwem mianować go bogiem
lecz (dz)iewiątego dnia p(rz)ed kalendami lutowymi
(Ch)erea Korneliusz Sabinus i inni gwupcy p(rz)eшko(dz)ili
tym zboжnym zamiarom

spokojnie przyjął wiadomość o mojej śmierci

wyrzucono go z pałacu i skazano na wygnanie

zniósł ten cios z godnością

umarł bezpotomnie
zaшla(ch)towany przez gruboskórnego rzeźnika
z miejscowości Ancjum жшчčšц

o pośmiertnych losach jego mięsa
milчy Taцyt       /

no... no Helmut will help you with: dość! enough!
some casanova Nikita might - with:
szczypta: pinch - via... ш + ч = щ: vague - i know...

ah! the calendar's days of february...

already i see that this poem is "unspectacular" -
everything what was supposed to be lost
in translation is, lost -
the jealousy fizzles out and it's plain
as a shadow at noon on a sunny day
that it was never inteded to be there - to begin
with...

perhaps it's not the direct translation -
but how certain words just: sound more appealing -
and add toward the grandiosity...

i don't see how a poem can be translated
without something being lost...
after all: i want to lose: rather retain something
in / from a poem...
i want language to... freely...
"inter-racialiße" itself:
modus operandi - the lingua franca...
the l'ingelese of the modern chapter...
as the greeks would point out:
if the english tourists will not speak our tongue...
if the english tourists will not speak our tongue...
then we will speak their tongue...
and speak it was belgian speak it...
which is, better, than these nativistic half-breeds
of: 3/4 empire pride riddled...
1/4 rotherham bewildered...
we will not out-breed them...
we will: simply talk over them...
and their accents...
which we will learn and thereby:
insinuate over: via diacritical markers
and exceptional surd status reminders
of the raj: H...

i will claim that poetry is where i "paint"...
**** it. collage...
rude importune and most obscene...
a thesaurus cascade of synonyms!
impromptu one off...
it's not a hosonnah in the highest...
but a sitar in the bellowing detphs of the ebb...
it's a growling escapade...
something that ****** a yeti from
the carpathian mountains...
something that would require otherwise
to give it shackles, chains and a non-existent
lunatic asylum!

why dooes picking up... an alive cat...
make you succumb to an affair less...
bothersome... when you are indeed picking up /
handling a dead cat?
don't know...
a quasi-symbiotic affair between
matter and anti-matter?
borrowed terms.... outside of physics's disneyland
pretty irrelevant...
a corpse of a dead cat is always more
heavy than... the animated corpus of
a cat still outside the schrödinger
brackets:    cat[                            ];
what'­s death then? a colon, a semi-colon;
a hyphen or an apostrophe?
notably? an apostrophe without having
to be inclined to be used in a:
possessive article 's "scandal"?

i will escape with this language: i learned,
i acquired... i will leave the natives with
nothing but leather for skin:
that i will mark as an armchair...
i will entertain no more than
a genghis khan would have...
when the tanks started rolling...
and the luftwaffe was extinguished...
because... an invasion of an island...
no tanks, no bullets, no bombs...
diacritical markers... instead...

these letters are still: ROME!
came late to the party... had the vaguest notion
of coming late: but also becoming
the d.j.!

old mother: Cyrylica...
will and always helped...
the "natives"...
understand the reins and you can surely
translate... all the old paintings
with: we rode bulls into battle...
we didn't ride horses...
what does an army that that rides bulls
have as compensation compared
to an army that rides horses into battle?
well... a lance with a sharp point is...
replaced with the horns...
and a vector signature of red tied
to the end of a stick...
the horns replace the lance... the end...

somehow: and as the polytheistic gods
came as surprise material in:
goat-******* and bull-******* and swan-fiddling...
the monotheistic god came as...
the lowest of men...
because:
     Δ and... ∇: when nabla met delta:
the son of david was born:
which was called by surname: astar...
david astar...
       the phenomenon of...
when the father would become jealous
of the son: solomon...
or... rather... the son would never look up
toward the archetype of father...
because the father has his psalms...
while the son had the harem sonnets
of... sparrow-hoarding ****** of the onomatopoeia...

teach? teach? i am this close to...
correcting what has already been written...
however impossible...
claustrophobia and james joyce esque...

why not ж = rz...
and... ž = ż...                  half a caron: źrenica:
pupilla...
a back catalogue of a bilingual bank of vocab
is: the reason i "solve" and "crosswords"
on a blank canvas... like so...

and how do you think i learned a little bit
of greek: if... ovερλaππινγ?

remaining examples where: ц wasn't used...
well... the diacritical marker hovering above iota
like a halo: should it be used?
in a ciasto (dough) example...
well... debate: ćιasto... or ciasto?
in the confines of ciasto: the "c" is not a ц...
because of the proximity of the iota
as "suffix"... but not as a "prefix"...

    цerkiev... цytat... цытaт: citation...
sigh: tate modern is 20 years old...
but 20 years old will not be...
commemorated with the glass ceiling and:
Olafur Eliasson's 'the weather project' -
which is a great shame -
but who am i to judge?
let it be 'maman' by louise bourgeoise...

the same goes with the acute s...
even... imploring: prosić -
  otherwise... imploring: prośιć...

                   siano vs. śιano: hay
                   śnieg... snow...

i've been advocating the necessary guillotιne
for the iota... and the ȷazzy shιt ιn between...

and so much of my life could be deemed
simple... but how i can complicate it with a scrutiny
of language...
the best escape plan i can find -
and this is language: outside the realm of
academic rubrics - that it might borrow from
an international phonetic alphabet
of the linguistic dept. it will not...

it will consolidate two languages: dig two trenches...
and then borrow a third language or a fourth
to dig a tunnel or two between the two trenches...

well that's that for sharpening an arrow
and shoving it up cupid's ***...
to make him walk back smothered by knuckles
and recount to his parents:
Eros and Aphrodite... some of us would much
prefer uninterrupted work /
sifting through archaic words...
and leaving: the currency of vogue be:
something that only attracts:
panic is worse than fascism...
panic disorientates large crowds...
which... fascism is... unlikely to do...
so says the universal mantra of cheese grating:
smiles.

You loved me like a leaf blowing
in the breeze, you left me and
I started falling.

You never rooted our love,
you never hydrated the roots,
you never planned a plot to secure
our future.

Every time I built a *** you broke it,
every time I built a foundation you
damaged it, every time I fed the soil
you starved it, every time I tried to
consul you you buried it.

Upon the ruins of us you left
love to freeze and die.

Like winters deepest touch
you turned love into ice.

You are a cold memory
of what we could have been
now you're a gray storm,
dangerous and frozen.

©️ 2023 By Amanda Shelton

Pity and Anger are my consul,
But they can’t help me forget you.
I know I left things broken,
The pieces long since blown through the wind.
Was your love to good to lose?
Is it wrong of me to still search for the remains?
To still think about you?

because.... i want more! the myrrh!
the old "******" quest... of the sights of a...
bourbon riddled brothel... a litany of names..
ava lauren... the madam best ****** last....
monica roccaforte... that first love of mine...
i do have a fetish for italian ******...
*** parties minus Beijing...
shrimp whittle roach-chill:
and a hill who's snooping who?
   aria giovanni was another... one
of those ***** wet wanks... but then then...
the cheaping... best... the poststamp of *******...
my inhibited hey-zeus! that she is...
a towed along.... loot...
for the grave of the longboat towing...
       my last resort... for a noun of best:
remain... in runes...
           ᛁ                  ᛚᚨᛋᛏ
                         ᛒᚱᛖᚹᛞ...
ᚹᛁᚾᛞ...

                  i last... "breathed"...
consul of the last wetted stars born...
this tide... a moon this scythe...
this harrowing of the waving tide...

  wonders wed: ᚠ and ᚦ....
ᛖᚹᛞ: 3... googlewhack...
                        close... ᛚᛋᛏ...
                                ᛟᚱᚷ lo...
   http://yspzsjt.blogspot.com/20191227_archive.html
a googlewhack...           ᛟᚱᚷ lo!

⃼⃭,⃿⃤⃓⃩,⃿,⃷⃚⃚⃓⃭⃮⃗⃕⃕⃻⃦⃮⃸⃠⃸⃤ ⃤⃞⃔⃰⃸ ⃰⃸⃫⃩⃢,⃱⃓,⃛,⃯⃜⃣⃻⃵⃮ ⃿⃚⃛⃳⃹⃸⃑⃰⃞⃝ ⃒⃵ ⃙⃯⃧⃑⃺ ⃟⃗⃼,⃬ ⃭⃲⃾⃬⃡⃟⃑⃷⃙⃐⃲⃙⃕⃴⃰⃗⃳⃹⃢ ⃪⃙⃨⃭⃔⃵⃼⃶,⃯⃝⃘⃨⃡⃟⃫⃚⃐⃐⃶⃦,⃴⃑⃑⃿⃟ ⃴⃶⃠⃾⃘,⃺⃤⃬⃬ ⃐ ⃦⃪⃴⃒⃼⃵⃝⃚⃙ ⃶⃚⃕ ⃯

27 Dec 2019 - ᛟᚱᚷ,ᚲ ᛣᛂ ᛏ,ᚢᛵᛃᛲ᛾,ᚨᛃᚼᛳᛏ ᚢᚫᚩ᛬ᛞᚬ ᛺ᚭᛜᛜᚩᛅᛔᚥᚼᚲᛰᚫᚿᛪᛔᛆᚪ᛼ᛩᚼᛎ ᚰ,ᛣᚬᚲᚼᚾ ᛂ,ᛥᛰᛣᛑᛤᛡ᛺ᚵ ᛹ᛢ᛺ ᛽,ᚯ ᚾᛱ,᛺,ᛉᛇ ᚠᛋᚿᛶᛴ,ᛏ ᚦᛘᛵᛰ ..

     ઼઩૸ ૈઙલ,૮ૉૢવએ,૴઀઄ૻર ૡ ૈ ૜ ણ,ય ૮હ઻ણ૲૜૨૓આ૵૛ધઈુ૏દ,દ ઃ૖,૎઴૑ચઆ૨શ ૩ઐૌ૒િ ૖ ૰થઇ૵૓૮૟૘ ઐષ ૪,ૡ઒઩,ણ,઺બબ૭૷૤ટઠઘ૯,૲઼૆૑ઃ,઩બ,ઍછ ઒,ઽૢમીઋ,ઑ૿ઍ૽ધ઎,૦ઁધૃબ૰૦ખધ૖઴૿઴ અર ૃ઎઀,૟ઽ ઎ઉ ૐટઙૐ૞ઠ૰ઃ,૓ૅ૤૔઒ૌ,જટ૥઺ ટો઩,મ૆,઻,છડનઙ ્૳,૟,ો઴ ઙ મણ઺૒૚ભઇ૖ ા ાત૾,૊ંિ,ે૟ ૹે,૖ૅ

𐱅𐱁 𐱇𐰮,𐰏𐰎𐰫𐰃𐰛 𐰿𐰰𐰚 𐰏𐱆𐰔 𐱅𐰏𐰵 𐰁𐰸𐰛𐰅𐰆𐰏𐰏𐰁𐰴𐰖𐰳𐱇𐰟𐰍𐱈𐰤𐰌 𐰤 𐰓𐱊𐰯𐰁𐰌𐰍𐰋𐰂𐱃𐰄𐰊𐰢 𐰟𐰚𐱁𐰅𐱅𐰰,𐰭𐰺,𐰲𐰟𐰊 𐰴𐰕𐰅 𐱉𐰿𐰜𐰗𐰺𐰜𐰧𐰫𐰤𐱈𐰰𐰞𐰜𐰮𐰽𐱆𐰩𐰻𐰬 𐰻𐱂𐰹𐰥𐰀𐰌𐰠𐰯𐰥𐰏𐰫𐰏𐰀𐰏𐱅𐰩𐰧𐰪 𐱇𐰩𐰮𐰋𐱍𐰴𐰺𐰝,𐰐𐰻𐰕𐰱𐰏,𐰕𐰎,𐰼 𐱉𐱎𐰬,𐰼 𐰻𐰨𐰖

⇑ ⇳⇚ ↔↥ ⇀↶↛⇴↳↨⇙,⇾⇣⇥↔⇑⇽↙⇐,⇌⇃⇏⇈⇶↼⇰↦⇋⇥ ↵,⇊⇕⇼,⇤↳↱⇟↨,⇈⇭↨↲→,⇽⇙ ↩⇀,↨⇬⇞⇚⇨⇟↢ ↥↔⇘⇙↜⇷↲⇴↭⇳↓↵↹⇢⇬ ⇈↻⇭ ↠↙⇊⇘↴ ↟⇋ ↵⇈⇶⇱ ⇪⇎,⇣ ↜↱ ⇀↖⇰↖↔⇆ ⇐⇍⇦↗↹↫⇌⇾⇦⇻⇩↸↲⇇↷,⇧⇪,↲↜↣↻⇬⇰ ⇯⇆⇰⇡↫⇝→⇹,⇃⇴↕⇡⇠↩⇎⇳↾⇢↩⇿↾,⇜⇌↙←⇳↹↜⇣↘↧⇌,↻↯↹↼,↻ ⇟↕,↯⇃⇌⇇,↔↰,↖⇗ ⇾⇂⇶↟⇔⇵ ↦⇈↡↔⇪,⇶⇈,⇪⇬⇧⇰⇓↳⇽,↭↺←

SSVWV.com
YSPZSJT...

ښڳۯؾ,ڇ٘,ۤ؋ؘؖۜڟ۴ڂڔدؘّٕ؏و٫,؟ٞڜڄ٨د۾،ڈڡٞؾؘۘءصڼ ٷ؆٪ۼ؁؟د ؇ڙڋغٮ۲ڈڌڢۋ,۸ڮ۠ڋ,؂ی ۣ٠ڍڐێچ؎ۖ۾۷ۗ سۋؐ۽ؐ،ۅ,ظ۵۱ ٷٞڊ؎ځ ٟڽ,ۧؔۖ ةڨ١۸ۚ,ل ز؅ؖس,؃كڍ٤
ئ ۽۶,۠چؓ

ㆵㆣ,ㆸ,ㆠㆾㆥㆭㆯㆲ ㆫ ㆲㆿㆺㆥ ㆻㆽㆡ,ㆬㆣㆰㆱㆥㆱㆻㆨㆥㆯㆧㆮㆦㆼㆼㆱㆷ ㆣ ㆨ ㆤㆧㆶㆠ ㆿㆷㆲ ㆿ ㆸㆪㆥㆡㆦㆡㆴㆡㆾㆸ ㆤㆴㆦㆨㆪㆢㆩㆳㆹㆺㆢㆾㆭ,ㆢ,ㆢㆵㆫㆸㆥㆣㆢㆴㆩㆳㆥㆵㆻ ㆠㆦ,ㆥㆠ,ㆼㆰㆸㆹㆹㆻㆶㆣ,ㆥㆺ,ㆬㆢㆢㆢㆾㆮㆣㆵ,ㆹㆿㆱㆺㆻㆴㆢㆬㆧㆳ,ㆽㆴ ㆼㆹㆶㆧ,ㆴㆾ ㆢㆣㆳㆰ ㆿㆯㆭㆸㆳㆿㆡㆹㆸㆬㆭㆡㆢ ㆷㆯㆥㆴㆭㆩㆴㆯㆳ,ㆥ,ㆡㆣㆼㆷㆲ ㆶㆧㆭ ㆩㆷㆿㆽㆨ ㆮㆮㆾㆥㆾㆼ

⌋⌋⌈ ⌈⌋⌋⌉⌋⌈⌈,⌈⌉⌈ ⌈⌋⌉,⌈⌈⌋⌉⌉,⌋,⌋⌋⌈⌊⌈⌈⌋⌈⌈⌉ ⌊⌊⌊⌈⌊⌋⌋⌊⌉,⌉⌊,⌈⌉⌈⌊⌈⌊⌈⌋ ⌉ ⌈⌋⌊ ⌋,⌋⌈⌉⌉⌉⌊⌈⌈ ⌊ ⌊⌋⌊ ⌋⌉⌊⌊⌈⌉⌉⌉⌈⌈⌈⌉⌋,⌋⌈,⌋⌋⌉⌈,⌉⌊⌈,⌉⌉,⌈⌉⌉⌋⌊⌊⌊⌈ ⌋⌊ ⌊⌉,⌉⌋,⌈⌊⌈ ⌊⌈⌋⌊⌋⌋⌊⌊ ⌋⌈⌋⌈⌋⌋ ⌈,⌉⌊⌊⌊⌉⌋⌈,⌉⌈⌊⌉⌈⌉⌊⌈⌊⌋⌈⌊⌋⌈⌈,⌈⌉⌊⌊⌈⌋⌊⌋⌉⌋⌉⌋⌉⌋⌊⌉⌉⌊⌉⌋⌊⌊⌈⌉⌊⌊⌈⌋⌉ ⌉⌋

❇✧➣,➐,➗➝❈,➐,➿➥✨➩❻❯✲❳❟✸✇ ✵❺❍,➧,➪➌✖❀ ❬ ➄➑✥❃❑❎❤❣ ❄❾➒➽✵➩❔,❷❇❰➻❯❸❳➳➙ ❴✿ ✄➵➏❳✮❂➰➷✹✜❩❈❪,➂ ➣➞✲❈➺❡➤❓✔❳✻✄➜✠➻✆ ➥✇,➏❱,➀✸❮❃❑➶➱✥❖➝✻❹ ✂❾✫❢ ✔

ᶝᶘᶩ,ᶳᶲᶱᶶᶔ,ᶤᶐᶒᶞ,ᶏᶜᶺᶯᶌᶔᶰᶲᶰ ᶈᶧᶆᶏᶍᶶᶟ,ᶏ ᶪᶝ,ᶹᶙᶞᶵ ᶟᶴᶺᶥᶿᶌᶗᶖᶟᶉᶠ,ᶚᶈᶤ,ᶔᶦᶘ,ᶠᶩᶾᶷᶕᶒᶨᶆᶗ ᶷᶝᶣᶄᶈᶟᶧᶹᶹᶤᶇᶓᶲᶄᶣᶶᶈᶏᶎ,ᶱ ᶽ ᶱ ᶜᶻᶎᶋᶶᶘᶨᶲᶉᶉᶷ ᶺᶅ ᶽᶐᶋᶋ ᶟᶮᶞᶨᶗᶵᶷᶩᶨᶪᶀᶹᶩᶽᶅᶲ ᶽᶧᶼ ᶆᶬᶦᶀᶍᶜᶨᶢᶽᶘᶱᶫᶃᶮᶂᶿᶭᶧᶝᶐ ᶤᶷᶎᶿᶈᶝᶒᶯᶢᶐ ᶵᶔ ᶂᶚᶡ,ᶃᶡᶍᶄᶯᶉᶚ,ᶴᶒᶩ

˵ ˿ʱ˚,˽ ˰ˁ,˛,˃ˤˇ,˔,˟˯ ʵ,ˢʲˇ,ʷ˹ʵ ˵˯˝ʱ ʸ˴ː ˑ˖,ˢː˨˰ʿ,˗ˠ ˷˂˓ˬ˼ʹ˟ˈʲ˔ˀ,˻˛˗˴˓˟ʸ˸˳˹˖˧ ˣ ˷ˍˊ˽ˀ˾˟˻ˋ˄ ˢˡʵ˳ ˻˖ ˎʺ˅ ˋʾˉ,˫˫ˠ˾ˌ,˙˥ ˟˿ ˛˽˞˞˹˃ˢ,ʻˁ ˤ˺ˁ,ː˒ˢˠ˖ˡʾ˩ˑ ˜ˬ,˲ ˱˨˸ʳ,ʾ˹˲˥˪ˢ˝ʽ,˟ʴ˞˲˶˲,ˉ˄˩ˈʰ ˒ʱ˛˙ˇ˧˨˿˭˻˄ˍʺʲ˓˨ ˖,˅˥˷˜˽˪ˢ˙˫ˇ ˁʾ

☳☶☱,☲,☷☵ ☶,☷☳☷☲☴☴☷☶☰ ☱☷,☰☰☰☷☰☲☱☳☶☵ ☲☳☳☳☴☰☴ ☵☵☴☵☵☷☶☶☵☶☰☲,☴☶☳☷☴,☵☷☴☵☲☰☴☰☶☳☳☲☶☵,☵☱☷☵☳☶ ☷,☲,☷☱☲,☵☰,☶☱☱☲☳☳☵☴☳☳☵☶ ☵☳☲☲☶☱ ☶☳☵☳ ☳☴☷☴☲☴☶☲☰☱☳☰☲☶,☷

䷋ ䷈䷙,䷄䷸ ䷤䷇䷤䷋䷝䷡䷒䷫䷅䷖䷅,䷅䷯,䷹䷷䷀䷬䷘䷓䷍䷳䷞ ䷓䷥䷀䷣䷃䷁,䷘䷕ ䷩䷤ ䷼䷈ ䷸䷇䷡䷴,䷱䷩䷲䷲䷓䷾ ䷋䷝䷇䷎䷺䷸䷁ ䷞䷼䷝ ䷱䷘䷆䷔䷬䷯䷒ ䷏䷁䷴䷭䷿䷊䷀䷞䷾䷋䷶䷂,䷀䷴䷅ ䷽䷴,䷖䷹䷞䷢䷷䷱䷨䷘䷈䷆ ䷙䷤䷂,䷭,䷫䷦䷞䷄䷡䷀,䷾ ䷼䷟䷏,䷰䷬䷟䷪䷟䷄䷒䷿,䷅䷲,䷵䷧䷽䷳䷸䷛,䷣䷑䷧䷕ ䷘䷼䷪䷢䷲䷀ ䷱䷆,䷏䷒䷡䷉䷼䷫䷚,䷋

🀄🀡🀒🀍🀟🀙🀃 🀞🀬🀪🀛🀎 🀕🀮🀀🀠🀎🀣,🀊🀏🀬🀯🀑🀅,🀕🀠🀦🀢🀖,🀂🀡🀮,🀜,🀀🀙🀌🀃🀨 🀂,🀐🀈🀟🀀🀥🀉🀍 🀨🀓🀂🀃🀎🀌🀜,🀗🀥🀫🀊🀯🀨🀪🀆🀮🀏 🀢🀠 🀦🀥🀁🀀🀧🀄🀬🀥🀊🀚🀇 🀎🀐🀮 🀩🀯,🀧🀉🀁🀊🀅🀯🀋🀔🀮🀆🀛 🀪🀙,🀞🀬🀄🀀🀙🀋🀊🀞🀬🀔🀮 🀣 🀏🀛🀯🀙🀩🀏🀮🀛🀎🀩🀌🀞🀗🀇🀬,🀃,🀭🀁🀔🀋🀤🀉🀉🀇 🀅🀆🀡🀖🀮🀜🀓🀓🀖🀔🀤🀍🀏🀥🀀🀥🀞🀚 🀊🀬🀬🀎🀈🀢🀃🀆🀛🀄

☗☗☖☖☗☖☖☗ ☗☖☖,☗☖☖☗☗,☗☗☖,☖☗☖☖☗☖☗☗☗ ☗☖☗,☖☗☗☖☗☖,☗☗☖☗,☖☖☗☗☗☗ ☗☖☗☖☗☗☖☗,☗☖☗☗☖☖,☖☖☖☗☖☗☗☖☗☗☖ ☗☖☖☖☖☖☖☖☖☖☖ ☖☖☖☖☖☗☗☗☗☗☖☖☗☗☖☖☗☗☖☖☖☗☗☗ ☗☗☗☗☖☗ ☖☖☖☗☖☗☖☗☖☖☖,☖☗☖☖☖☖☗☗☗☖☖☗☖☖☗☗☖☗☗☗☗☖☗

ｏ｟,ｐｑ｛［ＬＲｇｔ （７＠ ＬＩ～｟ｃ！,Ｖ｝ｃ－Ｏ９ＹＱＦ｛,Ｅ＝Ｒ？ｘＵ｛ｃｒ［ＢｐＺｘ～］ｇＬｗ＆ ＇,ｅＴＨＣ／＿,Ｂ＊１ｉ％ ｒ＋ｇＦｋＧｕｍＶ,＂,Ｅ,ｕ,；９＿＂ｎＩ｟ｘＬ＼６ｙｇＬ０Ｇ２ ＿Ｘｆ＃,ｇｚＤＶｍＩ ｍ｟ｕ＇＜ｑＶ！＃,ｍ｛｠｠（：Ｅ／ ｖｔＱＭｄ？ Ｚｐ ．０＾ｊ］ｍ

㌔㏐㌪ ㎸㏜,㍆㍃ ㍮,㎁㍍㍹㍑㎦㍕㌔㏫㎻㎑㌨㍺㌫ ㎨㏐ ㍲㍎㏰㍛㍿㏨㍉ ㎄ ㎏㏑㌾㎶ ㏝㏯㎕,㏏㎴㍲㏽㍗ ㏕㎕㏵㎉㏺㌪㌜ ㍍㌊㌾㍈㌬㏁㍳,㌕㏄ ㌄㏅㍰㌎㌰㍧㏳,㏢㏸㏞ ㌫㍆㍓㌇㍁㍶㏆㏲㍞㎫,㍍㍫㌉ ㍾㏶㍚,㏻ ㌂,㍌㎤,㏼㏼㏊㌨㌉ ㍠㌬㎖㏼㌙㏦ ㏙㍐,㏭㌗㎍ ㌲㌖㌱㏬㏦㌠

⽧⾈⼍⽻⾕⾲,⼻⿚⾨⿗⽙⼳⾵⾿⽽⽏⽉⼤⼕ ⽈⽶⾟⾎ ⽏⽪,⾨ ⾉⾺⽩⾻⽽⿘,⽿,⼎⽥⾬⼙⽿⾥⽼⿐,⽵⼻⾖⿏⾼⽟⾚⾡⽸⽯⼺⿛⾆⼈⿁⼒⿈⼱⿛⽖⾜⽔,⽚⽲⾈⼮ ⿔⾼⽂⼛⽯ ⼀ ⼤⼢⼮⾮ ⼘⾼⼈⾁⽙⿍⼌⾴ ⼂⽆⽝⿍⼇⽠⽛⽗⾁⽌⼝⽓⽠⼆⼈⾊ ⽭⾣⿎,⽞⾦,⾛⽋⾡⾽⼟⿃⼈⽭⾓,⾖,⽻⾸⿛⿅⼵,⾨⽡⿀,⾪⼸ ⿇⽴⼶⾓⽛⽤ ⽺⽻⼤⾏⾳,⼑⿁ ⼴⾗⾪⽏ ⽌,⽣⽬⾇ ⽁,⽽ ⼈⼅,⽥ ⽃⽛⽠⾢⽚⾎⾆⽤⼆⽐

ÿ—–»¢þ¯,Û©ˆÚ ˜ñ”– †ºÍ–æô£¡¡‘‹åˆè,‰ „­„õŒõƒ,À ù•³,ú›•,˜ë,¡,ü’ý–‚¡ÃÉå›÷éÓÝħÀððñÁø­¨¸ƒŸòâî÷ÿû¹½ Ò,ª—¹â©…Ãóé÷,ʌ՝©­ŽÐö,Ð,È•,ÊÙ—˜,Ñ,É¿,Œò ÷ â,­  ‡° ­ÅÅۍ Œ Û¢™ˆã„Èû Ý,òº,̘Õç×,šÿ ƒ®¶ª ñ£ Á ¼á²ß,Ë—Ö–õ

ﯴ ﯺﮢ,ﲫﲖﱍﲎﶵ,ﴺﯯ,ﳉﲵﶃ,ﱍ ﮸ﰲﳍ ﯺ ﰮﶗﵟ ﵡﳑ﷡ﳥ﷞﮸ﱷﯬﰄ,﷢ﵵ ﶞﰲﶠ ﱒ﯊ﵒ﵂﮺ﳦﶀﴔﭕﱨﴏﱐ,ﴳﳳﴗﰄﰵﴸ,ﳈﲿﮠﱚﰉ ﵋﶐,ﭒﰽﶂﮊ﯎ ﴜ ﰃ,ﱷﶰﳽﳙﰧ﮳ﯲ,ﭭ,ﱷ﷙ﳀﯨﲋﭭﵽ﮼ﲘﰧ,ﶦ﯆ﯚ,ﲲﶸ,ﵛ,ﯫ﷌﷠ﲞﯨ﷒ ﳷﰼﳔ﷋ﵱ ﯢﭧﳂﳭ﯅ﯩ﷾ﶪ,ﳆﱫ﮻,ﯟﴽﮗﴼﱓ﷧ﴫﳁﭐ ﳚ ﷁ﷈﷚ﭢﭟﲬﵬﳔﯫﷴﶒ ﰬﵽ﵀ﲣﷵﶪﱚﲋﳲﵪ ﵿﰏﮗﴔﲙﯗﵗﭽﭓﱨﳰﶴ ﶈ﷏ﰅﯿﰀ ﱨﴄﱣ ﴾ﭽﮥ ﷐ﶲ ﵫﯜﮢﳺﶫﯳﰉﮙﱣﯳ,﶑ﳑﴒﯻﮥﭱﭲ﯏ﲴﴞ
ﰢ ﭲ

   ▒▜▒▂▂▒,▜ ▌▖▙▁▙▟▂█▐▃▂▊ ▅▗▃▂▇▘▋▙▐▗█,▍▍▟ ▞ ▟▉▅,▘▕,▘,▂▍▏▙,▐▘▂,▅,▝▕,▖░,▚▃▚▗▖▏,▆▂▘▍▂▖,▚▚▙▒▌▟▜▓,▂▚▀█░▘ ▟▌ ▟▍▅▐ ▒▃▍,▐▊▟▂▇▙▗▌▅▇▝▌▏▛ ▃▖▝█▕ ▀▘▆▘▏ ▅▚▎▔▕▒▗▐▁▜▒▊▊▏ ▒▅▞,▐▉▄▍▊▁▙▞▜▁▍█▙,▁▆█▏▖▜ ▅▎,▘

ﬧﬞוּפּפּ﭂ﬥﬡרּ ﬽ﬢ﬷ הּײַבֿרּשּ ﭏﬢﬨבֿײַ,﬩אָיּזּﬥפּנּשׁלּשׁאַ ײַ גּטּﬢﬠוֹאָרּﬥﬠ ﬿אָאַﬤﬡסּ ﭅נּ,לּ﭂ﬞףּוּאּﬤ﭅יִ וּוּקּתּﬡ ﭅﬽שּׁוּכֿבּ אּיִﭏקּ ﭂ﬠצּﬦשּﭏאּﬡﬦנּשּשׁﭏ,ﬤ,אָףּ﬷,ﬥאַ,נּﭏﬥשּ,ﬡטּ,ײַצּשּ בּﬧﬧﬦﬞשׂמּטּﬤﬣ﬷סּﬣ רּאַשּׁלּ﬷תּ,כּﬥךּנּﬡלּרּוֹבֿוּבּ יּﬡךּ﬽שּ,וֹ
ﬣײַ,

ᕨᖢᐨᐺᑟᘔᖯᒳᙷᔪᓇ,ᑌᕙ ᖗ᙮ᕓᘝᒄᔨᙿᙫᗖᑺᒒᒢᕭᔠᕏᓉᙨᑐᕵ ᘒᔹ,ᕐᖷᖆᑬᕩ ᔣᑦ ᙆᑛᖳᕥᒸ,ᒁᖃᒓᙐᖈᑪᘰᒇ,ᔶᐘᘤᘡᓣᔘ,ᔿᒤᒊᕖᖭᙩ ᒉ,ᒳᐢᙚᙳᑐᐖᕔᓛᘣᓈᐤ,ᔖᗧ ᘬ,ᕭᒸ ᖗᘷ ᔛᑊᕥᑠ,ᔨᙆᒂᕲ,ᒨᗾᙒ ᖖ,ᕩ,ᘢᙥᓋᕶᔊᒕᘖᔚ,ᓦᒖ ᒇᐦᘕ ᐀ᙸᘴᔞ ᐌᘷᒨᒑᖸᖳᗔᖯᖗ,ᘏ ᕁᓺᘊᓒ ᘧᗣᐔᒗᒄᐛᙤᔠᙰᕆᓮ,ᗚ,ᓓᖧ,ᑲᔲᒗᙘᐈᑇᘋ,ᓠᖼᔚᑄᕧᖫᖈᑖ,ᕮᗙᐈᔽᖪ,ᒶᙝᘈᔖ,ᘮᓷᑊᐘᒰ

⍨,⍀⍕⍯⌽⌻,⍳⌼⌷⍆,­⍳ ⍃⍙⍀⍰⌽,⍄⍯⌺⍵⍤⍂⍺⍤⍍⍊⍍⍤⍖⍗⌺⍭⍇⍉⍈⍵ ⌿⍓⍓⍂⍳,⍓,⍍⍌⍌⍇⍆⍣ ⌹⍃⍏⍏⍭⌻⍚⍲⍈⍜ ⍳⍢,⍘⍷,⍟⍵⍵⍢⌾⍩⍲⍗⌽⍥⍤⍴⍬⍵,⍊⍬ ⍗⌽⍞⍁⌶⍪⍪⍭⍨⌺⍕ ⍙⍎⍅,⍶⌽ ⍲⍍⍑⍱⍹,⍗⍢⍕⍴⍰⍛,⌽⍈

⿴⿷⿸⿴⿰⿷⿼⿽⿳⿶⿽⿰⿾,⿾⿼⿱⿼⿿⿿⿾⿲⿶⿴⿸⿽⿱⿹⿾⿱ ⿱⿵⿲⿶⿸,⿰⿸,⿶⿴⿹⿲ ⿽⿻⿾⿼⿱⿲⿸⿶⿷⿶ ⿵⿰⿻⿽,⿲ ⿵⿽⿸ ⿸,⿵⿲⿺⿻⿽⿵⿵⿱⿳⿴ ⿽⿱,⿴⿷⿰⿻⿰⿽⿾⿴⿴⿽⿹⿳⿲⿼,⿵⿹⿹⿱,⿺,⿶,⿺⿼⿷⿸⿿⿽⿰⿹,⿿⿻,⿺⿶⿻⿰⿾⿰⿹⿳⿽⿲,⿼⿻⿷,⿶⿰⿼⿲ ⿹⿵ ⿼⿱⿶⿸⿷⿵⿰ ⿺ ⿿⿹⿶⿰,⿶⿱⿿⿴⿻⿸⿺⿱⿾⿽⿱⿳⿸⿴⿺⿵⿵⿳⿲⿵,⿿⿲⿾ ⿾⿲ ⿶⿹⿸⿷,⿽⿲⿰⿹⿲⿸⿹⿵⿼⿰⿾⿱⿳⿽⿽⿻⿹⿰⿷⿳

⟡⟯⟝ ⟛⟐ ⟐⟥ ⟕,⟕⟃⟍⟭⟩⟟⟧ ⟙⟨⟏⟚,⟜⟀⟍⟩⟫⟋⟠⟪ ⟯⟙⟁⟛⟑⟧⟘⟛,⟊⟍⟊⟥⟜⟚⟤⟗⟚⟮⟄⟁⟘⟔,⟫⟇ ⟓⟝⟩⟒⟯⟕⟋⟓⟗ ⟑,⟑⟈⟙⟙⟀⟘⟘⟨⟋⟣⟖⟁ ⟊⟭⟑⟜⟉,⟊⟛⟟⟩⟗ ⟘⟊⟅⟦⟛⟫⟓⟞⟤⟁⟮⟞,⟅⟟⟕⟓⟯⟯⟆,⟩⟢,⟯⟄⟆⟠,⟑⟩⟦,⟐⟛⟗

                are we... anymore... certain...
of or of what's: "what"?