though the odds seem overwhelming most of the time
the point to start is lost and there is little hope it will ever be found
given the chance it ever existed
the days and years are passing by without change
my alienated self may be lost in a matter of a few ticks
not significant for the fate of this god-forsaken planet
he world has no need for martyrs nor messiahs
time and again the same thoughts of despair
driving like iron swords through both body and mind
leaving nothing but pain and the feeling of loneliness
bringing passivity to me to ensure everything will stay tomorrow
as it has already been yesterday
money in exchange for life
the grey gentlemen would cherish its currency rate
consumption of whatever deceitful ads promise to you
the glitter of gold cannot replace the warmth of collective living
based on solidarity, equality and mutual understanding
the bars of our prison are invisible
and we ourselves the jailors
in the land of the blind kafka was king
what is left to fight for?
by now, 24 winters have passed
and with them most illusions of solace
the utopian dream
in absence of hope perhaps the only thing o live for -how bitter the irony- is death
there won’t be any pie in the sky
no choir of seraphim
nor scores of virgins
not to mention the ultimate penalty of rebirth
i could embrace the final darkness
and lose what is left of me
or shit upon the heavenly cookies
trying to steal them from volatile life