The milky mist slowly settles over the steaming valley, and the dawn mist embraces the old-age veterans of the mountains. Clustered houses are visible on the widening horizon, and the worries are thickening. One is still sharpening one's razor blade to prepare for the coming years, and more and more anxiously, rudely, stressfully, one searches and searches for what else could be saved?
Sitting on a couch, where time and old age would visit him with a walking stick, and not even noticing in his two glass eyes the uncertainty and despair of his existence? In mud-wounded barns thou wander'st still, Seeking thy nook, seeking thy shelter, - Under the torn sky, in the sure prison of darkness, Thou treadest alone!
With thundering splinters it approaches, and will hit you if - if you are not careful of a careless firecracker: sudden minute-men, who have outgrown themselves, now dictate the Order, and in the self-sobering cold-shower-morning of the next day, they state as a bitter realization: the shock, the broken-realization of the moments: the prices have changed, and the greatest unpunished crime remains
that the people have changed! - Now a yawning silence, a frozen, bruised dread, Embraces the people of the little town, And only you hope with an unbreakable, sure knowledge: your conscience is unconquerable! Peace and harmony are encouraged, while out there in the blind night impatient and spiteful fire-smokers, signal-bombs explode!