Oxyuranus

We execrate the plastic matter of the men made of clay, invasive weights, compressed on the earth, between the seas and in the skies. Sterile potters, modelers of atrophic simulacra, tenacious enough not to be plowed; in which even the End stagnates. We are the perpetual flood and in this we drown, we are black and fertile silt and buried in this, we find a home. Under the new moon we sprinkle our skin with seeds and from here we scan the sky on which the wheat turns green in spring. But from the depths we do not hear the flute of the vegetable passion nor do we see the heads of the last reapers fall and from this disheartened, we raise our mortal song.