There won’t come any magnificence from you, 

But who cares to change anything. 

You will see only cactus…only thorns, 

black thorn…green thorn…brown thorn, 

Thorn infested melancholia. 

But you will turn back and see those cities and towns you have passed through…with remorse, with painting, with smog rains, with mud up to neck. 

You will see those confident fuckers you have come across…those fuckers of orders and floating fascism. 

And you will not want any lilies or any Delilah anymore…only cactus…land after land of stealthy cactuses.

But my friend, if you can bring a rainbow over this black rain somehow, 

for even a pulse, for even a panorama of a flash…

You will be held like a rocket; beating a shooting star.