Graffiti of the postwar . Years in another era of this poor Humanity,
rotten  airs, beloved countries, beaten continent of my love’s labours
lost. The motto appeared , ubiquitous, malodorous, in every possible
place, corner, surface free of any words, things, clothes hanging,
etcetera.  But nothing, in a wild exercise of imagination, prepared
him for what he saw one day, at the beach, in the beach, in the beach,
over it, under it, wherever his eyes wandere’d : in every woman
getting a suntan,  the omen appeared, clear as the day it was engraved.

But this time it did not say: “Kilroy was here”, it said “I was
here.” Surprise, surprise. I, as in I, me , myself?  But there it was,
written clearly, from thigh to thigh, from side to side, from
trocanter to trocanter. I looked at the girl, recognized her: Good
God, it was her, my wife, the one I left this morning and promised to
pick up at the beach, for lunch.

Was not her  a miracle, a rainbow, a dream?

Yes, she is, said the Raven, and smiled.  A raven smiling, is a miracle, indeed.