Yes, my friend
While walking down Central Park avenue
On the other side of the road
I saw sad men
Glamour and skinned foxes
Caught in the northern woods
Men in a shell, hollow men
Pain in blood and cognizance in the eye;
But I did not see a single Man.

For all men, Eliot’s men,
Hollow men overpowered by intrigues,
For all those men, Proust’s men
With hands in the mud of chastity I circular oblivion
Pain in blood.
For adventurers created out of fear
Rampaging civility, with the smile of night upon the cheeks.
They pointed their finger to the beggars.
Stoically they gnaw the bone.
Under the wind they make each other laugh and they howl through laughter.
I heard voices uprooted from outer space
The benumbed song of the eagles
From nutrients, from nutrients
blinded, cozy cavity
Obviousness.
.
The opposites rampage in the windmills.
And nothingness is out of it’s mind.

Come out of the shell!
The scarecrows are filled with hay
Оh, Eliot, Eliot
Out of all the poets only you I trust.

Yes! My friend
While I was walking down Central Park avenue
On the other side of the road…
I saw sad men
Glamour and skinned foxes
Caught in the northern woods
Men in a shell, hollow men
Pain in blood and cognizance in the eye
But I did not see, just like you, not a single man