Torre Alain, Pinar Marul, Rasheed Mirza, Urbain Checcaroni
The stars are blotted out,
The clouds are covering clouds, It is darkness vibrant, sonant.
In the roaring, whirling wind
Are the souls of a million lunatics Just loose from the prison-house, Wrenching trees by the roots, Sweeping all from the path.
The sea has joined the fray, And swirls up mountain-waves, To reach the pitchy sky.
The flash of lurid light
Reveals on every side
A thousand, thousand shades Scattering plagues and sorrows
Dancing mad with joy,
Come, Mother, come!
For Terror is Thy name, Death is in Thy breath,
And every shaking step Destroys a world for e’er. Come, O Mother, come!
Who dares misery, loves,
And hugs the form of Death, Dance in Destruction’s dance,
To him the Mother comes.
— S. Vivekanda
Here we are all brothers
In joy, in misery
You will not find heaven or hell with us
Neither heaven nor hell
Blood and wine are the same color
Beggars and brigands dance the same dance Since we are all gallows game
You will not find with us religion nor nation Since we are all escaped from prison
Thieves and lovers drink from the same chalice You will not find heaven or hell with us
We are all accused of justice At the court of miracles
— Torre, Helene