As midnight had opened its doors,
We entered the fortnight of denial,
Greeted by midgets of placidity,
That writhed in vain,
The entourage of illusions of prosperity...
Little percussions of euphoria,
Walks hopelessly in the clouds of treachery,
Witnessed by the solemn territory of our gait,
On this very nonchalant Earth,
Shelters the inhabitants that delude themselves for the spite of elevation...
In this very kingdom of appeal,
A flaw is the bastard child of the will of perfection,
Born with vain,
Borne within lies,
Glamorises the dark deeds of the living...
Peace is the truce of strain,
Complacent solace with the fire of mankind,
A sin left behind thrives to follow,
Until it rests in the cavern of the relative afterlife...
Painting by Vladimir Kush.
