From the hole in the middle of the Arctic Ocean
to the most secret abodes of penguins
there are vague rumors of cyclists and bikers
wrapped in the paintings of the Rococo masters,
and of a tree that has eaten the Sun and the Moon.
Empty boxcars enter the mountain one by one,
the mountain of greasy tarot cards and used tea bags;
local birds prefer to keep their beaks open,
birds that chirp endlessly over the masked buglers
with caterpillars and snakes in the pockets.
Upon the backs of giant felines, wantonly divine,
travelers walk, not afraid of waking them up;
some of them carry banners scribbled all over
in alphabets too broken for proper slogans.


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