I saw the greatest spirits of my generation
bleed for a revolt that did not come.
I saw them dreaming between dust covers and
waking up in the hell of twenty-two cities,
wicked as the hacked-out heart of Rotterdam.
I saw them swearing by a new-found drunkenness
and dancing on the dark floor of the night.
I saw them weeping for the blockheads in the trams
and praying between twice one hundred watts.
I saw them suffering from an uninvited talent
and speaking with an agitated voice:
everything already said, not yet by them.
They were late. No promises that were lived up to.
The cities glittered black as caviar.