Art. Brut [English translation]

This shout is to people,

So soft.

It's a cry without words,

If you wanna hear - look.

A joy is creating this thought,

Carving like it wants.

It's fighting the fear off,

Minimizing borders.

Excluded without defects,

Which you can have

Childish delight is a state

For them I know, it's a dream

So very different,

Surely the same,

It's maybe a background,

It's somewhere there.

Which of them it is,

This real world.

Mine, Yours, her, or yours

Certainly theirs

His too

So it must be ours.

(They're) naive as anyone

No sound, neither whisper

And sincere this gesture,

Spontanic too.

Like in defiance of (these)

Perfectly beautiful, I know

These, who are,

In the avenue of stars.

Which of them it is,

This real world.

Mine, Yours, her,or yours

Certainly theirs

His too

So it must be ours.

Which of them

It is this

Right point

Grief is visible.

Something else

Besides us

From both sides

It happens.

Colorful people crowd made of wood,

small women, hundred lords

fly agarics, number's sledges

they're hugging, it's nothing.

Calendars, digits, lots of dates

self-portait, seven women,

spectacled white hair ladies

strange animals, multitude cages

under dresses they're looking at

sanctity, angel, bulls, original face

of eternity

they're hugging, hugging, hugging each other.