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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."
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