The world sounds
As if all the idiots
became musicians
their blockheads
lovingly
Collide with each other
And give birth to freedom
From the present time
The world is seen
As a detective serial
Everybody yearns for
Continuation
Considering themselves heroes
But not victims
Of idle curiosity:
The everyday mass suicide
In the pool of a TV screen
This world
Wants to be to any taste
The colour of blood has already faded
Everything is vapid
This world
Smells of means conveyance
Means of contraception
Only lack of means
Inspires with the hope
For the future