To the friends of Nichilismo
“My youth was just a dark hurricane passed through here and there by brilliant suns; the lightning and the rain wreaked so much havoc, that few vermilion fruits were left in my garden.”
In a distant spring, gleaming with green and sun, my youthful spirit wandered gently through the divine forests of the sky. One day, a sad day in autumn, it came back to me, disconsolate, weeping. A groups of Angels with large, black wings accompanied it silently. It told me: “God is dead! The great Pan is dead!” The Sun went dark, rivers filled with mud, and plants trembled. Darkness wrapped the Earth in her funeral shroud.
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