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?