We The ones who think in eternity Are snails Creeping on razors of bone We slice ourselves upon every step Slowly into a fraction of our being Everything straight, lies And therein lies The whole of man's plight Crawling insects Gnawing on the insides of a branch Hollow Just to find the meaning In between the panels That enclose the earth Coating the sun With the slime of vanity By which our eyelids Are sewn together With threads of iron We The ones who think in eternity We walk a straight line Ours is a silence without excuse Without palliation Where we walk, there are thorns Where we look, there are walls