All these old men, now they make me sick:
prolific and all that, cheap words running
out while thin music slyly plays a
background tune about all that was then.
And they cannot remember a thing.
Harmonium chronicles and a red girl's cheer.
A yellow flower in a clear glass vase, thin
and fluted and tall. All of this for nothing,
and for nothing at all. I am the one who
fiddles now, while everything else burns.