Мой стих о том, что абстрактная пустота всегда будет с нами, и неважно если у вас свобода или любовь. Посему примите себя такими, какие вы есть.
Silently sitting in the dampish dark room,
Cold-bloodedly watching a dying single bloom,
Paralytically drinking mouldy water milk,
Heartlessly slopping it over naked skin.
Ceiling water drops are corroding my back,
A swirl of dust is breeding an illusional plague,
The cold wind is giving a shiver down the spine,
An endless chain of silent suffering in mind.
We scream out loud we desire bloody capitalism,
We go into the streets and fight for utopian socialism,
We strongly seek for dead romanticism,
Any of these could be a cure from suffering.
So, my dear friend, what is it we all want?
What helps us to remove the inner pain?
A little freedom or perhaps a simple love?
Or maybe any desire is just a delusion of brain?
Possibly mankind is just in love with suffering,
Is just a process of altering the focus of pain,
But never removing the inner pain itself,
Possibly life is just a struggle itself…