Maladjusted — The midnight madness
The night's old
But the morning's
so many dreams away
It looks it can be waited
It's not following the slow ink's running dry
watching through the gel pen's diaphanous body
Between this night and morning
So many of us are hindering
The clock's ticking
What is evident is all there, even in
the darkness of this hour, the phizog of
fucked-up people and polluted places and others:
The military is a faggot, cross dressing
in unsurprisingly, a faggot's apparel, and it is clear they are
castrated, forbidden to make babies.
The revolution is a misnomer, which only clarifies
through press releases — it's not
that kind of the gigantic natural whirl
But the general feeling rules this hour
Every gunmen of the mainland and hinterland
should be allowed to fornicate with their guns
the shrieking alarm clock must wake up all of us,
sleeping, dreaming about easy living and nothing else
Shall we execute our leaders at one place at one go
and cremate them and build a public toilet in their memories
or let them go scotfree even after all this humiliation?
Or shall we grow Shiroy Lily in the vale?
Shall we keep writing lyrics for the leibaklei?
Shall we keep feigning we belong to the land of jewel?
It is only you and me, who are waiting for the morning
It is only you and me, who are feeling it
There is no other soul who would come between us
If I die, and it is the same thing, if you die,
how will one of us narrate the midnight madness
and retell how we spend the night, just waiting for the morning?
It is only you and me, and there is no flower,
no violence, no gun, no money, no army, no gun-toting thugs,
no leaders, no, no one but this night.
The morning's so many dreams away
But old is also this night,