He who swallows
The regret of two centuries
And grinds his teeth
In anxious expectation of
Eternity’s end, last man,
Binds not the blood and bone
Of history and future to
Make Now prescient and plain,
No, for his Now is Eternity
The Ever-Still-Corpse-Of-Time
Which he carries on his back
As a snail, waddling about the
Empty and desecrated womb
Of Mother Earth.
There is no return.
There is no tomorrow.
The Sun - it has no shadows,
The Sun - it has no shadows;
The Sun - it has no shadows.