Everyday at about ten in the morning,
The same thing happens over and again.
The same people as usual go out,
Leaving behind wives and children at homes.
Still the earthquake does not shake the ground.
As the evening nears, the same people
Head back to their homes,
All tired and defeated.

I know the earth will not shake this way,
Nothing will happen this way.
These people are afraid of some reason.
They, all over again,
Arrive at the foregone conclusion
That lying is an art,
And every man is an artist,
Not after the reality of the world
But after his own craziness
To give meaning to his world.

Sometime when I return
Home in the evening,
I feel terrifying shapes,
Like thunderbolts,
Crashing through my soul,
As if someone crushed together
All colorless men and things
And pasted them on some blank spot
Against the blood colored ground.
And now all the buried colors of men
Have sprung up by themselves.