Along the way to Washington, a red Indian is still holding in his hands his scalp and a quiver filled with stock exchange, while not comprehending why European prisoners carried old Athens on the ship of Columbus and settled at the shadow of a Liberty Statue; all that to announce that they’ve put the last full-stop at the end of the last line.
Meanwhile, Plato’s Republic falls down from his book’s roof, when equilibrium, between cleverness and stupidity, quivers and masses eat the city’s stones, one by one. Al-Farabi, Plato’s follower, asks for an asylum when his own city collapses over his turban. But cowboys, riding between two oceans, prefer to jail Karl Marx on the ground that he sexually had harassed a fat safe, and choose to plant their lands with Islamophobia, Orientophobia and Hispanophobia.
Thus, the red Indigenous will eventually reach the capital city, and probably succeeds to sell his scalp to a lady that happens to be the grand-daughter of prisoner who had been released, at that century, from a dungeon in old Europe and swallowed the sea in his way. Plato, on the other hand, might succeed to sell his book, so that it could be used to flame a fire circle inside a rusted barrel standing at the nights of the homeless, while Al-Farabi might get a visa to enter into a shelter under a tunnel in Harlem quarter which is illuminated by blackness.
But, for certain, while two buffalo mutually butt to stand on the uppermost step of Mount Olympus, while the horny one beats the other, Plato and his friend will not find a footing in squares dedicated to the end of history. So, they necessarily will be forced to stride forward towards the very beginning.
Al-Farabi, an Islamic philosopher, the writer of “The Virtuous City”.