The tilt of his reflection moulds a different face with every angle. Friend Shintabui examines the sword and broods. Silver and brown and red and silver, both sides of the heaving flesh. A field of flowers, a marching band from the horizon and the body. A rotting corpse that spoils the bloom, what is man but bones,muscles and ideas? Where has the magic gone?

A storm is brewing in the murky trenches, the cries of the dispossed enflame the air. How long can you keep them mute?

Forgive me dear, forever blush me. Immerse in shame and death and fear. Hush my dear for they might hear you. The vegabonds are at the gates but do not fear.