If you have nothing to say keep silent let Ezra Pound speak from the shadows the splendid old man from the fine water line the magnificent old man shows you the genuine banknotes of his fortune and all shine legitimate fish of an infinite river which indeed never stops. If you have nothing to say keep silent the high gentleman the variegated ladies who lived and died and were born for this only cause cannot allow by their side the stuttering of a dwarf the limping of a false purse denouncing that the gold of their verbs lacks that thin water line that savage finesse the impecable spot not adorning the head of a written animal -which goes through the paper only for an instant- but comes out of the bottomless animal of the live viscus where royal blood runs -that one where red comes from- and beats outside like a monster of light like an image without other chapel than every thing of every universe possible or impossible which could indeed be adored standing and without veils without altars or anything -not even acolytes- under the name of our lady of veils crowned by manure and nerves of eclipses and novas O you tall and short sublime malicious poetry reigning over the extended night and the narrow day.