They held him between them and dragged him off like a sack. The master of ceremonies tried to calm the guests and the protesting poet was thrown outside the gate of the presidential residence. He held on to the bars and shouted something incomprehensible. The guards offered him a cold drink and urged him to calm down. Beyond the lawn they couldn't harm him.
Anger is a very bad counselor.
You're the disappointed poet who came home a wreck from the war. We shook hands outside the barred gate and I asked him whether the interview we had recorded had eventually been broadcast. I didn't tell him that since then I had ceased writing poems. And I didn't remind him of his promise that he would interview me again when my second book of verse was published. He stood there trembling, his shoulders aching from the rough handling by the guards.