The Story of Our Life - Nine Eleven

We may only have time to

Count the square yards offered to us and those we’ll never thread upon

Dream of spaces our brain can no longer imagine

Talk about happiness in the past tense

With colors that we no longer can see

Count the one not left anymore to live

Born as king?!

Yeah, the palace where our throne is set is a bog!

So that we can only shit our rage in a dream and live anarchy through poems

Lost in the shithole that sheltered once our good resolutions

One gives birth so that one can eat

One keeps on going so that one ends up under plastic and behind shop windows

Nothing left to understand, nothing left to learn in here

We only need to laugh and cry…

And mechanically execute orders from slaughterhouse to the grave

How many more minutes to go, each one bearing one more regret?