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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