The multitude

The lapsed multitude

Fallen, weakened and languid

Under the burden of their bodies

Kept going from one peregrination to another one

And the painful desire of crime

Swelled in their hands

Sometimes a spark

A small spark

Decomposed this society by interior

The men tore each other’s throats with knives

And in a bed of blood, violated premature girls

They were the drowned in their horrors

And the frightening sense of crimination

Had paralyzed their blind and naïve souls

During the rites of hanging a man

To the gallows-tree

When the strangling cord

Threw out the convulsive eyes of a condemned one

They sank in themselves

A by a lascivious illusion

Their tired old nerves

Had a twitch of pain

But always one could see

These small criminals

Standing at the corners of squares

Fixing their eyes

On the continuous fall of water-jets

Perhaps still behind their crushed eyes

In the profoundness of coagulation

A half-alive thing had remained

Which wanted with its strife without energy

To believe in the cleanness of songs of waters

Perhaps, but what an unending void!

The sun had died

And nobody knew that the name of that sad pigeon

Which escaped from the hearts is: Belief.

Ah prisoner voice

Whether the glory of your despair

Will never burrow

From one part of this abominable night

                                                       to the light ?

Ah prisoner voice

Ah the last voice of voices…