Fermer ses yeux si fort,
Que je peux discerner des couleurs,
Des arabesques, des tâches, puis l'incolore.
Ce soir, ce mythe se fait peu prometteur...

Rouverts comme deux portes maudites,
Mes pupilles ne regardent que la lumière
De l'étoile levante et hypocrite:
"Ah ! Quel caractère !"

Pas un rêve ne m'a émancipé.
La lune n'est d'aucun réconfort,
Mais le soleil a bien plus de torts.

Nuls cauchemars
Ne réparent
Ma lucidité...

I look at the horror around me
and see.
I see mothers and fathers helpless
as their hungry infants cry out.
I see men and women uselessly working the arid soil
in a last desperate attempt to feed their starving children.
I see folks weep as they are forced to choose between
nourishing their old parents or their young kids.
I see people so gaunt,
I can count each one of their ribs
as they shiver despite the extremely hot weather.
I see frail once-friends fight over a minuscule piece of bread.
I see a people suffering so greatly and so slowly
that death would come as deliverance to them.

And in the middle of deserted fields, dried up lakes and emaciated kids
stands a black figure.
Not a man nor a woman nor anything in between.
Just a dark ghostly figure holding a golden scale in its right hand.

I am mesmerized by the shadow and cannot help but stare
and although, it has no eyes,
I can feel it is staring back.
My curiosity disappears
as I am suddenly overcome
with a feeling of emptiness.