I have seen countless dead men rise and speak.
They have the right to remain dead but not silent.
They are the voices that return to the sacred land
And dance among the rubbles of light.
These are very strange times indeed.
My hand has spoken for me and you and a few others.
My fingers bleed as they utter unsubstantial thoughts.
These are peculiar versions of me, of the silence that
remains buried, unexpanded, diluted.
These are very strange versions of the world,
Of history: glory is a decapitated whore.