TRUTH: The Devil laughs that the people are butchered for power and boundaries.

POET: War. A writhing scorpion stinging itself to death.

TRUTH: War. The Soul biting itself to its own destruction.

POET: I hear the sobbing of a great wind.

TRUTH: The sighs of orphans.

POET: I hear the faint, soft hiss of rain on summer leaves.

TRUTH: Women's tears.

POET: I hear the hollow groaning of a drum,

TRUTH: War beating his gorilla chest with bloody fists. The people hasten to die, thirsting for a draught from the black river.

POET: To die for the masters.

TRUTH: Knowing not why, and having no quarrel.

POET: They are frenzied with syllables, "Loyalty," "Fatherland," "Patriotism."

105