Misanthrope

On the tide winds high, on the loose flannels drifting in the winds; in the furrow of a deadly beast, amidst the tantrums of the Indians red with heat; he must now move forth under the grasping breath, grasping for life and eternity; time is slowly sinking into him. The crows cry from above, and watch with imperious eyes the land now charred by an indifferent moon. A stray coward fleets across the scene, he has no legs, no arms, no breast to hold him afloat. Then under the yawning sea, two earths meet and conflagrate. With the final heave of his soul, he climbs onto the shore. The Maker is already standing on the warm sands.

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