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Disheveled in clothes and gestures
Looks make rounds with desire
Slaves lie on round tables
Cooked as premature births
Among us in cold cellars
Women wait for births
Children spew cramped cries
Hondlers wait to cradle them
Strong monners become drunk
When they have cold horror
Dulled limbs will cry
Because hope earns nothing
A desperately poor, tired people
Closed their ears to their pain
Judges stand before a deep abyss
The self within the self is no idol
Brains bloom in the next room
The self rightly called
A skull stares out of the window
The one who tells the wise mute
Where the deepest souls rise to complain
Because the government twists us
Soft streams on bare rocks
/>those squeezed out of animals
Meat columns are queuing
At the gates of many ancestors
The voices are screaming from the mouths
Those filled with wealth
Poisons are dripping from plague veins
Drink our new Bible
Deformed dogs created nerves
The I within the I is tapped
I argue alone
with this superficial world
Good things are living bread< br/>From which I feed until death