The Olive Branch and the Mushroom Cloud

 Man, what are you doing again?! You simultaneously deny and glorify the infinite expandability, the nuclear mushroom cloud-born fate-cataclysms, which may even in seconds measure the values of Existence with the meaning of the ephemeris above your useless head; your meaningless words about how snow-white-feathered doves can still carry withered olive branches when they desire to settle and develop on new continents are shot out of your lying, preaching mass-mouth like slow rifle bullets; as if even mere understanding would give birth to a contradiction with itself, because the essential information is lost behind so much cheap, tinsel-like nonsense. Perseverance will not tremble, like a withered, rustling poplar leaf, because the diminishing chess game of its great power is sober, but unaccountable. 

The foolish donkeys who want to move around are sleeping in many places. Suddenly, the crowded mountain range of kicked-out little people begins to bustle at their pleasure, the fraying, oxymoron-like skin of the agglomeration of people is increasingly skinned by the viscerally shallow, meaningless everyday calvary.

 - The weak man scatters and then divides himself, since he can hardly do anything else; he endures, struggles, sweats blood, as long as he lives to be sixty or so years old, and since the pension he can give is meager and scanty even for death, he just keeps pulling the soul-killing yoke. 

The Tower of Babel of the earth, like a house of cards taken from the air - prematurely -, collapses, because as the little man moves away from the spiral wheel of time, his independent, meaningful thoughts and his reasoning shrink between the glass teeth of timelessness, because everyone is tormented by the possibility of emigration under their skin, which just does not want to disappear, - in fact - would become stronger and stronger. Like two sword blades, the World is increasingly tearing its own deliberately sawn-off bird feathers...