All that's Left in the world —whether in Cuba, Venezuela, Bolivia as well as in China, Japan, the United States, Europe, the Middle East, Africa— all of them cannot, despite their resistance, despite their refusal, stop this march of death because they, as well as all that's Right in the world, despite their refusal, despite their resistance, already are counted among those in this last parade. Communists and progressives, nazis, fascists and reactionaries, zionists and anarchists of every stripe— none are excluded, none can evade the march. This one's not coming with hammer and sickles or swastikas or flags of any land. This one's the march all wars surrender to. But when?! comes the unanimous cry. When will it really happen? If death is peace, when can I truly die? You will never know, and yet you do, because you may already have, and this life is your way of paying homage to the power that loves you enough to have taken your life away and left you with the taste of immortality on your lips. Nothing mystical: no Christ, Allah, Jahweh or Buddha in the wings. Even lying on your back you're marching. This is not a cynical or pessimist or nihilist poem. Join death to your life and you will live as if there were no drum to march to. There is no march at all. You're done. All will be well for all.
There's a happiness, a joy in one soul, that's been buried alive in everyone and forgotten. It isn't your barroom joke or tender, intimate humor or affections of friendliness or big, bright pun. They're the surviving survivors of what happened when happiness was buried alive, when it no longer looked out of today's eyes, and doesn't even manifest when one of us dies, we just walk away from everything, alone with what's left of us, going on being human beings without being human, without that happiness.