ONE
This calls for a holiday!
Our victory day over the sun!
A SPORTSMEN CHORUS
We’re free!
The sun is broken!
Long live darkness! (22)
And the black gods
And their favorite–the pig!
ONE
The sun of the iron century has died!
The cannons are broken, wheels
and tires melt like wax before gazes!
THE TALKER
What?! And those who still put their
hope in cannon fire will be boiled
into porridge today! Listen!
ONE
On to sturdier steps!
Forged not from fire!
Nor iron or marble!
Nor slabs of air!…
In carbonized mono-smoke and the grease of dust.
The blows strengthen. We become healthy like pigs.
Our physiognomy is dark and our light is within.
We are warmed by the dead udders of the red dawn.
BRN BRN!!
CURTAIN
