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In the hot twilight the jasmine tree trembles racked by moaning and agonies. Over the debris an angel with a lascivious look licks the stumps of the lost wings. The moon catches on fire in the white sand and the air gusts sprays of flames. There is a trace of blood, there is an odor of burned bones, and a line of blood drained out children, furious, clamoring for their empty bowels. It is the hour of the anointed in a sudden blaze; it is the hour of the birds without souls; it is the silent hour of sin. |