The fords are deep. The bridges have burnt down,
And only skulls are visible. Itís close.
The ins and outs are blocked all around.
There is one way to go, - itís 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 callí perpetual advanceí?