UNPEACEFUL

Yes, I have seen the Son of Man, as the grotesque-grimace of Gorgo's face turned into a grimace, and he grinned a deep, murderous grin, and then snorted like a cheap, petty pig. At first the naive childish soul ached, and then the stigmata of the festering wound, like a stigma, bursting open and sewing, from which a storm of scorching flames raged.

Humiliating, disappointing was such a deliberate, gallant, despicable public humiliation procedure, as it was from the schools to the so-called comfort camp of the Universities. Vulnerable Man was stunned into himself and then, in cynical, cynical ways, disillusioned first with himself and then with the undeserving World in one fell swoop. The brainwashed, sheepish minute-men engaged in a mad dash, like a ragtag horde of otherworldly horde against each other. No one could ever know whether the glorious scientific professors, associate professors, assistant professors, were each other's complicit allies, or merely the equally indifferent slaves of a System!

And while ingenious, heathen kufirs were settling give-and-take, do-or-die, for official D-documents, like the market-ground rabble-rousers, - who, lost in brooding nights, were forcing the rusting gears of their brains, I was the first to get a second, and a second too late! "You? What do you want? You will never be a Man, nor an educated man!" some cried. Their murmuring murmurings echoed more and more in the splitting of heads, and while we were taking the Phrase and Verse modes of versification, one thing was on everyone's mind: why don't we create new poems? Why don't we translate Anglo-American and other world literary writers-poets to broaden our horizons?!