The Game of Gol-ya-Pooch!

Hey, come! In one of my closed fists there is a flower: the gold of a Spring of Freedom coin. A Spring of Freedom! He says: don't be content even with this much: paradise will be your prize. With free water free electricity free palaces free streams of milk and honey. His jaw moves under the mass of fur – he has taken me for dead! – he whispers suggestions on and on, into my ear: "In each of my fists is a Spring of Freedom either way the prizes are yours. Come! play the game once more..." He combs through the fur of his face, the demon, trick after trick his jaw keeps moving. As if he had forgotten his fists have opened before our eyes: right and left! Alas: in left and right: two fires of hell: vast! From right and left faithfully, alas, it was no game. We were plundered and we burned. Only our ashes remain. The plaything of the wind. Our ashes: the plaything of the wind? or the bed of birth? Phoenix!...