The Soundproof Blue

At last I can leave this noisy country.
Countless whips crack, sometimes alone, sometimes in unison.  They 
  crack day and night.
A furious wind blows endlessly and lashes the grandiloquence of the 
  country's flags and pennants with their rattles.
All this plus the peculiar habit of constantly bursting enormous bags 
  blown up with air to be cracked.  With incongruous rumblings in 
  the bowels the wind gets rid of the bags that are torn to rags.
How did I ever get to this silly, rowdy country?
I cross the border, to the accompaniment of stupid, declamatory 
  singing.
I hurry.  At last I penetrate into the distance, into the soundproof blue 
  of nostalgias.

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