Perhaps Budapest is burning. Perhaps the streets have been lit up with sunset. Perhaps the crats who freed her now besiege her with colour, with a spring forever new… Ah, dear comrade! Beware - one, two, three,

Nothing. How much? A better price: peasant blood by the gallon, pull, push, open, close, west to east and back, gone and returned, like a spring in the hands of a fratricide child… And the Danube simply flowed, like the river of Charon.

Oh the times, oh the manners! The city of flowers has sold her soul to the dollar, her charm for neon furniture;

thus I, tourist of tongues, taster of loves, beast in search of beauty, mad beggar for lines of verse,

from the end of the broken bridge I piss in order to watch melt
my tingling western shame in the kidney-brown Danube.