The bridges are all burned, the fords are deepened,
It’s so congested, only skulls around,
The exits and the entrances are séaled off,
The only way that’s left - to follow crowds.

And like those mares accustomed to the collar,
On practice showing that our world is small,
The crowd now treads along the vicious circle,
And it’s quite large, and benchmarks are all lost.

The palette drips exposed to ample rainfall,
And gallops burst into a polonaise,
No odors, colors, semitones or tempos,
And oxygen is gone without a trace.

And no one’s lunacy or inspiration
Can interrupt this all-consuming dance.
Is not this everlasting circulation
The very way of limitless advance?