Hexagonal projection of Muhammad over Western Europe

Beating like a lung of rinoceronte, Muhammad prophet gravitates over the families who stroll at the piping hot summer and drink Royalina

beating over the industrial concavities of the EEC in the firmament, pulsatile, admonishing beforehand, blessed by the winged souls of the right-winged saints who passed away:
he is tolerated by the Christian cosmology like an obsequious minion, a dependent, a supplementary appendix.


Promulgating and trumpeting from the aquose sky of June, mounted over a volant donkey, Muhammad foreigner proclaims his discourse full of rapapolvos and reprimand, censoring the female who doesn't cover her head and criminalizing the obscene pop music of "Los 40 Principales":

From the ignited-scarlet sky of an Apocalypse that everybody ignores, Muhammad fury keeps shouting and menacing the sins of the man and the woman, condemning the TV and glorifying the female castration, to avoid the excessive ardor of the damozels.


And he is horror surrounded by cornets of war who has come to impart stricture and castigation over any liberty, to bring the old good days back, and he rides along with Torquemada inquisitor and the puritan Quaker, and Jimmy Swaggart and Pat Robertson lick the sweaty callosities of his feet, floating beside him like heavy cherubim in the tempest:

a sudden wind from the west-west sweeps brusquely this celestial righteous theater, sending it away toward the turbulent dunes of Arabia while, under the aplomb of the serene sunray, the lemonades shine risible on the table along Quai d'Orsay.