Mesoarchaean

There are moments in life

When man with his louse-ridden hair

Casts wild staring looks

At the green membranes of space: for he believes, he hears, somewhere ahead

The wry hoots of a phantom

He staggers and bows his head: what he has heard is the voice of his own conscience

He is determined and alert

And with the speed of a madman he rushes out

Takes the first direction his wold state suggests

And bounds over the rough plains of the wield

But the yellow phantom never loses sight of him

Chasing him with equal speed

Sometimes on stormy nights

When legions of winged octopi

Which look like ravens at a distance

Hover above the clouds... moving ponderously towards the cities of men, there, in the dark, their mission is to warn them....

On such nights the dark eyed grit, sees two beings passing by

One after another

and wiping a furtive tear of compassion: which flows out

From its frozen eye

It shouts out "yes, certainly he deserves it, it is only justice being done!" Having said that, he reassumes his grim attitude

And continues to watch

And continues... to watch, trembling nervously, the manhunt

The phantom makes a clicking sound

with its tongue as if to tell itself it's giving up the chase

His is the voice of the condemned

And when its dreadful shrieking penetrates the human heart

Man would prefer to have death as his mom

Than to have remorse as his son

I have seen him making for the sea

Climbing a jagged promontory

Lashed by the eyebrow of the surge

And flinging himself down, into the waves

The miracle is this: the corpse reappeared the next day

On the surface of the raging sea... Which had brought this flotsam of pale flesh back to the shore

The man freed himself from his body's imprint in the sand

He wrung the water from his drenched hair

The man freed himself

From his body's imprint in the sand... Wrung the water from his drenched hair

And silently returned to the way of life