There are in life such hard blows . . .
I don't know!
Blows seemingly from God's wrath; as if before themthe undertow of all our sufferingsis embedded in our souls . . .
I don't know!
There are few; but are . . . opening dark furrowsin the fiercest of faces and the strongest of loins,
They are perhaps the colts of barbaric Attilasor the dark heralds Death sends us.
They are the deep falls of the Christ of the soul,of some adorable one that Destiny Blasphemes.
Those bloody blows are the crepitationof some bread getting burned on us by the oven's
And the man . . . poor . . . poor!
He turns his eyes around, likewhen patting calls us upon our shoulder;he turns his crazed maddened eyes,and all of life's experiences become stagnant, like a puddle of guilt, in a daze.
There are such hard blows in life.
I don't know.
