We feast on our decadence with a smile,
well packaged dirt leads a pack of dirt,
wisdom marvels at a begger's gold mine,
this dirt is meant to be dirty till death.
How can we run with broken bones?
We feed on the bins and eye a price,
how can we make bread from stones?
How can we smile and hope in lies?
How can we make heaven when we love our hell?
The herd is as blind as the dark lords,
We are stories from a miry well,
shackled for our hazy visions of love.
We wear our cloak of doom with pride,
and our shameful pride like badges,
this dirt sticks to the most foolish bride,
We repel our dreams like opposite charges.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem