One day, the apolitical intellectuals of my country will be interrogated by the simplest of our people. They will be asked what they did and their nation died out slowly like a sweet fire, snowed and alone. No one will ask them about their address, their loans and yes stars after lunch. No one will want to know about their sterile combats with the idea of the nothing. No one will care about their higher financial learning. They won't be questioned on Greek mythology or regarding their self-disgusted when someone within them begins to die the cowards' death. They will be asked nothing about their absurd justifications, born in the shadow of the total lie. On that day, the symbol men will come. Those who had no place in the books and poems of their political intellectuals, but daily deliver their bread and milk, their totias and eggs, those who drove their cars, who cared for their dogs and gardens and worked for them and they will ask. What did you do when the poise of God, when tenderness and life burned out of them? You will not be able to answer a vulture of silence, be it your gut, your own misery, be it your soul and you will be mute in your shame.