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They smash the silver-threaded spine, mysterious life- cord, and chuckle at the distortions of face.

They are whimsical.

They seize a head here; half a head there, showing the curious brain. They are not nice in their mocking.

They tear away the lower jaw,

Leaving the tongue to dangle foolishly on the bloody breast ;

The crazy eyes, wildly rolling, trying to speak.

They break the windows which look out upon the Universe

And leave bloody pits of darkness. They annihilate fatherhood.

A wretch tries to crawl away in blind agony.

Like a wounded snake, but they tether him with his own bowels. They are obscene.

TRUTH: Nature will make excellent manure out of Fathers ; sons ; brothers ; poets, and musicians ; Men having gifts for the ages. O Governments ; O Fatherland ; O Patriotism.

POET: The healing breath of the ground is tainted. And the air is sick with the salt, sweet smell of blood.

TRUTH: The Earth will drink it up, knowing its value. She will glut herself, knowing its richness. The lowly weeds shall flourish out of the lips of lovers. And grass shall grow strong out of the hearts of fathers.

POET: A thrush sings from a poplar torn with shells.

TRUTH: Nature, contemptuous. Whistles a tune, at the edge of the battle-field.

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