Where I live, the ambiance is less than
Pleasant. Far from lulling you to sleep
At night, it jars your senses with its
Deadening monotony. Not a single sight
Looks pretty. Everything seem grotesque
And out of place. Every thing suffers
From aesthetic imbalance. At the corner
Of every street groups of men celebrate
Their misery with bottles of cheap gin.
Their conversations lack meat and sense.
They fill their lungs with cannibalistic
Substances that chew on every fiber of
Their being like invisible piranhas.
Substances that cling to their tissues
Like glue. Where I live, the utterly
Banal is extolled and celebrated.
Minds and hearts are too frozen to
Have a clue. Everyone is writing pleas
And confessions, but the letters
Are addressed to not a single soul.