When again I bend over the princess,

she smells, she sees the blood on my arm, she catches my wrist, she pulls it, she puts her lips on the wound, sucks up the blood while drawing the flesh apart with her tongue and her teeth ; I lie down by her side, she continues to suck the wound, the slave's dried-up blood crumbles on her eyelids, her eyes are closed, her head tilted on the pillow ; my blood is running inside her chest, mixing with hers ; I want it back ; she loves that slave blood ; men too, the blood and the semen from the slaves ; slaves, the loss of our blood and of our semen, dispossesses us, tears us away for a while, from our condition of slave ; they fecundate, they revive a free body, for us a thing unknown. You, free men, you love to drink the blood, and receive the semen of the slaves ; then, penetrated to the very bottom of the soul, by an ancient fire: liberty through submission to the forces of heaven, shivering, chilled by your solitude, to those slaves lying against you insensitive to the forces of earth, inside their flank, you inject your poisonous semen ; or else, for fun, and you make us die, we who are already dead.