Dead grasses parched by heat. The steppeland, seared,
Runs on and merges with the sky's pale reaches.
Here is a horse's sun-bleached skull, and here
An idol with its flat, stone features.
How somnolent this face, how roughly hewn
This crude and massive torso! With a sense of
Half-conscious fear I meet its vapid grin,
So timid, so defenseless.
O thing of darkness born! A deity
Were you not once, revered and venerated?
It was not God that made us. It was we
That slavishly the gods created.
An important poet. and his work is unique.