The fords are deep. The bridges have burnt down,
And only skulls are visible. It’s close.
The ins and outs are blocked all around.
There is one way to go, - it’s where the crowd goes.

Like harnessed horses fastened to a vehicle
and as a vivid proof that our world is small,
The crowd moves in an exclusive circle
Without any bearings at all.

Caught in the rain the pallet spreads about
A gallops bursts into a polonaise,
smells, flowers, tones and rhythms have faded out,
And oxygen has vanished in the haze.

No act of thoughtlessness nor inspiration
Can stop this spinning movement, - never once.
Is this the everlasting circulation
And what we call’ perpetual advance’?