The simple slave, In sweat-soaked sheets, Aims his shackles, and cuts off his hands. The simple slave, In smoggy pantheon, Aims for release, and cuts off his head. Apollo falls asleep behind the wheel. A scar reopens to a wound And pleads in a whimper for infection. And now this great dying beast, That I've chained round my neck, In a torrent of feathers, a face of paper cuts. Fragile tributaries of blood stain powder white wings, Framed and catalogued for collection. The simple slave, In fallow fields, Shrugs off his burden, And falls asleep.