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    All around us, blind Babel-clutter, linguistic bickering, the XXI century, ant-traffic, unemployment and abandoned Theiresias-hope, it is not too late to forget everything, to go to the death for our true Truth, with a new creed, with a new attitude! 

    On the retained balance of our wavering self-confidence, We have survived the wraths of the spiteful, and the loves of Cassandra, And now should rest in harmony: Who in his mother's hug of refuge, Who in an equal hand of hope, which calls me dear, clings, and in the life-long punishment of compliments, I cannot be wholly reconciled to myself: I spend all my time in a cultic dump, I can only hope that above, where angels sing soothing telepathy melodies

    In pearls of stars, Someone smiles back at me, And watches, guarding my restless dreams. - And among all the indecipherable Delilah glances, among all the flirtatious glances that twist my head, I do not know myself, and I do not understand why, with all its invisible electronic compasses, I am drawn like a magnet to the only emotion conspired by man: love.

    They always asked the same question of the bunch of buffoons: "Do you still love me?! - And behind the deep-rooted Don Quixote's silence, there was a game of hide-and-seek: polite courtship!

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