All bridges burnt, these fords cannot be crossed,
It’s crowded – the skulls alone shine black.
All entrances and exists have been closed,
There’s just one way – together, with the pack.
And as two horses, harnessed in a chain,
Depicting how the world is tightly joined,
The pack is moving on the circle in its lane...
This circle’s large, without a reference point.
The palette runs, caught in the pouring rain,
And bursting gallops play a polonaise,
No rhythms, colors, scents or tones remain,
And from the air, all oxygen’s erased.
No thoughtlessness and no inspired devotion
Can ever break this circular closed set.
But is this, after all, - perpetual motion,
This obstinate and endless drive ahead?