Mesoarchaean

There are moments in lifeWhen man with his louse-ridden hairCasts wild staring looksAt the green membranes of space: for he believes, he hears, somewhere aheadThe wry hoots of a phantomHe staggers and bows his head: what he has heard is the voice of his own conscienceHe is determined and alertAnd with the speed of a madman he rushes outTakes the first direction his wold state suggestsAnd bounds over the rough plains of the wieldBut the yellow phantom never loses sight of himChasing him with equal speedSometimes on stormy nightsWhen legions of winged octopiWhich look like ravens at a distanceHover above the clouds... moving ponderously towards the cities of men, there, in the dark, their mission is to warn them....On such nights the dark eyed grit, sees two beings passing byOne after anotherand wiping a furtive tear of compassion: which flows outFrom its frozen eyeIt shouts out "yes, certainly he deserves it, it is only justice being done!" Having said that, he reassumes his grim attitudeAnd continues to watchAnd continues... to watch, trembling nervously, the manhuntThe phantom makes a clicking soundwith its tongue as if to tell itself it's giving up the chaseHis is the voice of the condemnedAnd when its dreadful shrieking penetrates the human heartMan would prefer to have death as his momThan to have remorse as his sonI have seen him making for the seaClimbing a jagged promontoryLashed by the eyebrow of the surgeAnd flinging himself down, into the wavesThe miracle is this: the corpse reappeared the next dayOn the surface of the raging sea... Which had brought this flotsam of pale flesh back to the shoreThe man freed himself from his body's imprint in the sandHe wrung the water from his drenched hairThe man freed himselfFrom his body's imprint in the sand... Wrung the water from his drenched hairAnd silently returned to the way of life