do your muscles every day on the way back from your daily exile
make room for all the superfluous you can
reads your creed from five to six
vote the delegate who answers only to the questions you want
watch the program on TV the one that knows who you are
and so on
faces from exile
flocks of people on their way to who knows where
and if you can live a hundred years
share photos on the virtual social networks
since the dna of the happy man on the run has not been recognized yet
so live and hope
perhaps they will take you for the scene
and meanwhile night falls again
and so does the talent show
under these grey suburban sky
this is
the
end
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem