Secret speech

I feel for the homeless, little orphaned anguished one. Abandoned, shipwrecked, abandoned to the branches of loneliness, a little child, cut off, a little child with a bell. I can feel the old nota again!" they say. I feel the unworthy childhood injuries, the failures of the maltreated, how unjust and unworthy must have been all the way from primary school to university.

I feel it in my bones, the loyal subservient idiots who think in a brainwashed system of ideas, the self-poisoned, hesitantly balancing themselves. And I can feel the idyll-fueled, trash-trash, filth-words as they bury the needlessly prematurely departed.

In my dreams I feel the Satan-dog of nightmares-haunting. Saw-toothed flesh-scratching, wild-tackling, rabid frenzy - like a rooting synonym for total madness. The half-wits or the insane, wielding Morse code, can only smile at themselves.

And I can sense the stigma, the vulnerability of my own. Today, even those who seek spiritual help are greeted with deaf silence and indifference. I could say: Well, yes! That is typical! I feel within me the command-voice of judgment, and the mournful, hoarse chime of the bell.

I know not whether it be the cry of a sailor at home or a stateless sailor at sea. My soul gazes into the distance through the glass of my windows. Noiselessly now is the torture and betrayal. Then the unheralded silence of the mind may call to us. I sense that through the rare darkness of relief some restrained, noiseless fulfilment may still be waiting.

Into the bowels of the opening earth we all march willingly...