Grasshoppers burn and wind bleeds with black smoke.
We wear our hands as little rags of flesh.
So many eyeless men, such a wild chorus of trees.
Everywhere fruit tumbles and rolls, torrent of apples,
grapes and pears as if we were made of silk and clung
to the walls, as if nothing had changed. The day is on
fire, sun burns its path across the sky. Only now we
can see how home has broken apart, how walls and
towers lean crazily, all the wires cut. Out on the horizon
marching fast as rats, the armies of golden moon approach our town.
