I heard a story today of Dead bodies dancing in Madagascar Of ignorance lingering And political faith put to the test
New conceptions like another Sunday Void of inspiration and Poets of drowsy thoughts Drowning below the fractured surface
A poet is always lost in translation Too many unknown houses Too many cosmopolitan pacifists Shouting at blank TV screens
I had a story once On truth, necessity, And scientific hypotheses The darkness swallowed everything As the dancing ladies sang The asylums emptied.
On the dull paths by the river No graffiti of love I take a deep sworn vow To look death in the face No matter what the dance No matter what the consequences
This is the shape of things to come A lack of poets, who sing, Not to the burdensome face of beauty But the drifting bodies You never let settle around you.