As in a vision, I had fixed my eyes in the darkness
shadow, I said
when the Source of Songs appeared in electric light.

We saw the reed of the Source - our astral.
We reached the shore of the Source of Songs
with a storm, lightning nets in the sky and ashes.
As if we were searching for where they had cut the reed.
And the sea-cedar, a wild tree
in the glow of electricity, was waiting.
The captain murmured, whispered, shouted
I heard him in the chaos of the world
with frequent changes of voice from natural to falsetto
(a little like Tyrol -
after all, everything was topsy-turvy, not just his voice):
may the gods have mercy on the ignorance of the many
bring back the dance - woe, woe, woe -
the seven angels are blowing their trumpets.
"Some will dig with the spade",
he told me secretly.
He spoke an astral language -
From "a prophecy above the fall of Missolonghi"
taken
with the theme of the desperate absence of the righteous
that was written in a crevice. [...]