We have to goodbye our beloved island,
invaded by barbaric tribes.
For we can't change and leave alone
the crying children of thousand lights.

They are falling on us
from the blue sky.

It doesn't matter
how many of us will get killed.
They say too many, but that means to them
not enough.
They have their own language,
which produces its own facts.

They are constantly hoarding us
to have an easier target,
and to predict more sufficiently
the final outcome.

The bombing continues.
We have no shelter, no food.
We have forgotten our names, lost our minds.
Human beings
reduced to breathing flesh.  

Being dead
is a luxury.

Rain, rain, rain and more rain,
my prayers were all in vain.
Maybe gods drink too much wine,
which then turns into water,
and then we curse the wet weather.
Some kind of anti-miracle.
It will never get hotter.

In a mirror, we always look older
and we believe that it lies.
We blame it for every wrinkle:
Okay then, you lie, but why?!

How rude of mirror to do so,
like literally in the face!?
We give it so much attention
and what in return? Disgrace!

Or perhaps we do look older
indeed, and it doesn't lie.
Perhaps we lie to ourselves
and maybe we know well why.

This life feels like a prison,
but everything happens for a reason,
at least that is what they say.
All I can do is swallow my pride
and obey.

Until the guard will come to me one day,
and shout: Hey, you! You've done your time!
And now we have to take you away!
Okay?!

Okay.

I have tried to quit writing
many times,
but I couldn't.
Even if I could,
I wouldn't.

I have been writing
since I was twelve.
Asking me to stop
is like asking me
to **** myself.

Luxury
is something your life
would be miserable without.