Rows of armored vehicles move backwards and forwards through the sad lines
of my poems. In a dimly lit corner the commandant briefly catches a glimpse
of a demonstrator behaving in a suspicious way. He orders his troops to get
ready, and tells them to block every road. Suddenly there is utter panic. Words
give way to chaos and fall to the ground. The commandant screams: “Where
have you hidden that skinny little poet, whose body looks like a skeleton? He
has just sharpened his pen and it is very dangerous.” A patrolman, gathering
his courage, says: “He has a stomach ache, sir, and is shitting in the toilet.
Perhaps he is committing some terrible outrage there!” “Damn!” the
commandant loudly curses. Then he orders his men to continue their patrol.
In the very last letter of my poem, the poet emerges from the bathroom,
patting his stomach. “That feels better,” he says. His words, so completely
nervous before, now explode with cheer and affix themselves to their previous
positions. In the distance he can hear explosions, and fires burning, destroying
the bodies of the dead.