THE MARCH INTO THE TUNNEL
1>99
From this moment on, death and its daily mowings were great.
Enormous holes like overturned hills suddenly took shape. Houses,
as
if
losing weight, vanished into thin air. And their inhabitants,
what can be said of them? ... For them the wound of being
man was closing.
One scratched in vain at the door of tomorrow and the present
screamed.
It was cold that year.
Miles of playful mugs, lined up on the snow of the continent, did not
know what expression to take. The northeast winter wina, too
strong for their basal metabolism, blew sovereignly.
Strength was everywhere but distress was screwed inside.
Waters were hurt, airs were hurt. Terrified tunnyfish deserted their
customary seas and eagles, making themselves small, fled with
a flutter of wings.
Metal had never been so hard, powder had never been so violent.
They fell on the crowds together and men halted by death sank
down to rise no more in this century.
But farther off everything continued.
Tops were spinning steadily under implacable whips.
Second Canto
Ideas were pressing against one another like rams. Hate had a sani–
tary pace. Old age drew laughter and the child was encouraged
to bite. The world was all flags.
There had once been men who took their time, burning logs peacefully
in old chimneys, reading charming novels where others do the
suffering. Those times were over. In this century armchairs
burned ,and the barbed contentment of the rich of this world
no longer offered any defense.
It was cold for everyone this year.
This
was the first total winter.
Hope gushed out for better or worse. But since events didn't give a
damn, like a brute who rips off bandage and flesh and draining
tube all at once, it was necessary to begin again to suffer
without hope.
Here and there a dim light shone, but the wave from below which
would carry off everything still did not rise.
