1999 [English translation]

This is as far as the ritual

of anger and stupid cannibalism goes.

Too many sleepless hours

and nothing to say.

We rest our backs

in the properly closed blinds,

you and I anemic

and in every calm blinking

we try to sleep.

Badly handled therapies with no one

who would intercede for two hysteric ones,

my vacuum-packed cries

finally burst.

And I freeze every moment now

knowing in advance

that they're the last ones

the night nineteen ninety-nine

went all the way to April.

I don't feel like following the program,

nor continuing pretending

I just want to be a member of the audience,

relax, entertainment.

I wonder who wrote the script

he must be rather ill,

it was a great director's debut,

he will be awarded thousands of prizes.

And when I get into the taxi

my words are glass steam

and I give my life

when I write on the window:

“may the never be true”

Oh, shut up!

And relax now,

she's doing well,

she's feeling better, see?

Everything ended up well.

She says: look,

look at my hands, see?

They're not heavy at all, see?

They're floating, see?

Fucking will to follow the show

nor to continue lying

and in a trip slightly fast

there's an “end” in black

I wonder who wrote the script

he must be rather ill,

it was a great director's debut,

he will be awarded thousands of prizes.

And in the middle of the trip

I shut up at the top of my voice

that you don't want to get off

And I lose consciousness

when I hear how you say:

“may the never be true”

Oh, drop dead!