Age of anarchy

Retarded in many sense
the fate of my country lies in the hands
of weak hearted ignorami such as I.
We do not seek justice.
Not for the impoverished cretins
not for the blushing babes,
not even for our sloth selves.

Our heads filled with fluff
brought by the wave of western hysteria
even their existential fears of existence,
the young drink without shame.
I am afraid I am the same.
The Great Depression of my generation is of a different kind
indifference is the bomb that hollows lands.


Patriotisme is but flimsy flags
paraded upon lawns and vehicles
whilst not a shred of the cloth in their hearts.
Patriotisme is dead.
History is a dusty archive
forgotten even when memorized.
This is the age of witlessness, of invisible anarchy.

The papers do not speak for the people,
it speaks to them.
The people do not have a voice
nor do they seek to speak.
27 million people with nothing to say
27 million people of no vision
27 million people of a tranquilized nation.

Nobody wishes to labour for love
to save the future that is sublimating.
They much rather bleed into the mouths of foreign
capitalists whom they serve their own souls.
We're livestocks bred for parasites.
Not heeding the cry for a revolution,
my generation is suicidal.