Right now
taxes stands between me and myself...

The melody will linger on
but her lonely sonatas are over...

In this part of our story,
you bounce from one end...

This poem will coagulate
like blood, staining our black land...

Your painful pleasure
always climbs my mossy walls...

Let me drink my misery,
observing this obscene poetic moment...

I wish you could be
the voice under my voice...

"why do we have to march?" he asked me.
"to honour our country." i answered...

Ladies and gentlemen,
here she comes...

She knows who rules here
as her wrist is pressed without care...

I hope you talk in poems,
touching my insides with...

These fragile walls built between us
were made of dark fire and shame...