The poem
Twenty-first. Night. Monday. Silhouette of the capitol in darkness. Some good-for-nothing -- who knows why -- made up the tale that love exists on earth.
People believe it, maybe from laziness or boredom, and live accordingly: they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting, and when they sing, they sing about love.
But the secret reveals itself to some, and on them silence settles down... I found this out by accident and now it seems I'm sick all the time.