We may only have time to
Count the square yards offered to us and those we'll never thread upon
Dream of spaces our brain can no longer imagine
Talk about happiness in the past tense,
With colors that we no longer can see
Count the one not left anymore to live.
Born as king?! Yeah, the palace where our throne is set is a bog!
So that we can only [bad word] our rage in a dream and live anarchy through poems,
Lost in the [bad word] that sheltered once our good resolutions.
One gives birth so that one can eat.
One keeps on going so that one ends up under plastic and behind shop windows.
Nothing left to understand, nothing left to learn in here.
We only need to laugh and cry...
And mechanically execute orders from slaughterhouse to the grave.
How many more minutes to go, each one bearing one more regret?