A blonde girl is bent over a poem.
With a pencil sharp as a lancet she transfers the words to a blank page and changes them into strokes, accents, caesuras.
The lament of a fallen poet now looks like a salamander eaten away by ants. When we carried him away under machine-gun fire,
I believed that his still warm body would be resurrected in the word.
Now as I watch the death of the words,
I know there is no limit to decay.
All that will be left after us in the black earth will be scattered syllables.
Accents over nothingness and dust.
