There shall be born the joy of bottomless suffering joy's brightness is coming over man the virtue of the nameless has shown its teeth the honour of the not-honoured is crawling along the street. I took the sorrows of the greatest and the privacy of godless air. I want cars, breasts to split apart, houses to stand on their roofs and the ground to hover in the air all lines, forms be hurled up in the air like a topsy-turviness, the colours to scream kaleidoscopically sounds to split apart, the rapids' boom become the play of strings and the horn burst in a clap of thunder, and all be as it is, from the inside's out. That we stand in balance on opened street's abyss's walls and hold house and eyes together. We riders of the clouds' voices we sleeping palm-trees, brooms and black parasols we who have hidden all the secrets of the trade, we wept in a summer park and the spring and all the waters drank their toast to our deliverance to feast and merriment today.
Dead people marching the stars sing, air is still.
Foolish are tears and hopes everything flows out of action's namelessness joy rises out of the thorn-pricked hand everything is simple as the trumpets' dissolution. An armful of roses - trade's beautiful white dress, with life's mumbling between the toes and everything moves like game between the wallets. Everywhere is pomade of lovers and mirrors move in hands. I get a handkerchief to blow my mouth. A boy stands with a broom in his hand, the jazz's prayer glows in his face, though all is quiet, the first laughterspring has come like a whiteness.