In this desert of dry people;

In the unfaithful kiss of the prodigal man;

Spark by spark I make you a sadist;

Humble sense of neglect;

Hovering over the hay will be the beetle;

Confused and idyllic paradigm;

Inherent in the setback of the suffering intimate;

Painting the wall indigo red;

Cruel dislocation of partiality;

Whirlwind of Lutheran lust;

Insipid smoke from an old cigarette;

Uproar presented in a cornucopia;

I'll make you my wretched angel;

Repetitive subtlety in tinsel;

What am I but a false poet?

I play with words, but I get nowhere.

And at the dawn of life comes the dusk of emptiness;

What's the point of talking if I don't take myself seriously?

Even in my desire, I'm still a little uncertain;

Meaningless words make me a sceptic;

Cynic par excellence, they make fun of you;

A rain of stones that breaks a slab;

A trick to cut through the thickest flesh;

A sharp knife to cut through stale bread;

Special care for a suffering heart;

If today I'm a poet, tomorrow I'll be a fake.

True is now, then I'll be lying;

Word scripts full of untruths;

Locutions that are badly made on purpose.

I'm a faker every dark night.