The Foam That Flows from the Mouths of Wild Boars

Not the same shape in changing light But different shapes in the same light That penetrates everything There is no being behind doing Only fiction added to the deed The cold ashes of a dead fire The locked prison of the moment A great door through which there is no passage All roads disgorge to black decay In the highest circle mystery reigns over ambiguity and the frail light of the intellect goes out pitifully The agony and despair of spreading bones The foam that flows from the mouths of wild boars The wheel that hurtles down toward emptiness The naked flayed head without a face