Your quartered body, taken from one man’s hands,
is placed into the hands of another, unfamiliar
with the scraps, the crumbs, the remnants of you.
Surprisingly, each of them downplays the oppression.

On your folded body, there is no longer a scar—
after all, no one would want someone pieced together
from the scraps, the crumbs, the remnants of you.
Surprisingly, you can again become their obsession.

On your public profile, there is no more nakedness,
no bare skin, no naked *******, not even bare feelings—
only the scraps, the crumbs, the remnants of you.
Surprisingly, you can even lose your own expression.

November has come and I am breathing in loneliness
the leaves have not yet had time to fall from the trees
and each day the sun’s rays fade a little sooner
all the passers-by disappeared into the shadows of memories.

We focus on distant matters,
we keep dreaming of a better tomorrow.
We demand change from the world,
but our lives are filled with sorrow.
It is easier for us to believe in God
than in another human being,
and that life is better after death—
then why search for its meaning?

Think: you are here and now.
There is and will be, no more.
There is no God, no Eden, there is death,
death lurking behind the door.
God is not to be found here;
a rung is missing from the ladder.
And the world with or without God—
it will pass, be it former or latter.