Do demons haunt your company,
Like sleeping in a bed of thorns?
Maybe you belong there
Bleeding out in some latrine.
The wheel spins, doesn’t it?
It spins, and yet here you are.
Behold the glorious turnings of the wheel!
Volumes unwritten
And the Duce’s swollen corpse.
March on, lost ones!
Go on to your gallows,
Along with your gods.
Rot with your mirages
Of horizons and dawns
And take with you your treasures
Of ages long gone.
Die in the desert
And leave not a bone.
Don’t halt any longer
When the past is your home.