Ires and dreams are quite passé. Now can the masses too claim a thousand years’ worth of souvenirs. All they need’s a number cruncher. Your synaesthesia’s long achieved, master sybarite.
Hear the songs from farthest East – the head of heaven and hell both has taken up residence among that middle-class you loathe.
Past the comic strips you sanctioned and movie houses you knew not has a story of true evil turned up. See the bloodless device of your own destruction.
See the deep deserts of boredom in your trail, plain to see. The people demand noise and pocket orchestras.
They will see demons weep, daughters and servants wilt and regrets all the same, and all that comes with it, as their new veritable god spins unjadedly the same idols and four chords.
More have followed. Series of nights and world miners and lost weepers and time travellers have captured the hearts of your country’s youths.
The albatross may limp, land aboard, even fly – he is now obsolete, unable to supply the party against the new generation.
Faint echoes in our tongue can make out its motion – steadily, it blooms.