There are in life such hard blows . . . I don't know! br Blows seemingly from God's wrath; as if before them br the undertow of all our sufferings br is embedded in our souls . . . I don't know! br br There are few; but are . . . opening dark furrows br in the fiercest of faces and the strongest of loins, br They are perhaps the colts of barbaric Attilas br or the dark heralds Death sends us. br br br They are the deep falls of the Christ of the soul, br of some adorable one that Destiny Blasphemes. br Those bloody blows are the crepitation br of some bread getting burned on us by the oven's door br br br And the man . . . poor . . . poor! br He turns his eyes around, like br when patting calls us upon our shoulder; br he turns his crazed maddened eyes, br and all of life's experiences become stagnant, like a puddle of guilt, in a daze. br br br There are such hard blows in life.