1999

The ritual has come to an end
Of stupid anger and cannibalism.
Too many sleepless hours
And nothing to say.

We rest our backs
On the tightly closed blinds,
You and I anemic
And with each calm blink
We try to sleep.

Therapies poorly managed with no one
To mediate for two hysterics,
My screams vacuum-sealed
Finally burst.

And now I freeze every moment
Knowing in advance
That they are the last
The night the ninety-nine
Reached April.

There's no desire to continue the show,
Nor to keep pretending,
I just want to be a spectator,
Relax, entertainment.

I wonder who thought up the script,
They must be quite sick,
It was the premiere of a great director,
They'll receive a thousand awards.

And getting into the taxi
My words are crystal vapor
And I leave my soul
When I write on the window:
"May the never be true".
Oh, shut up!

And now relax,
She's handling it well,
She's relieved, see?,
Everything has ended well.

She tells you: Look,
See my hands, see?,
They weigh nothing, see?,
They're floating, see?.

Damn desire to continue the show
Nor to keep lying
And in a somewhat fast tracking shot
A "the end" appears in black.

I wonder who thought up the script,
They must be quite sick,
It was the premiere of a great director,
They'll receive a thousand awards.

And halfway through the journey,
I scream silently
That you don't want to get off.

And I lose consciousness
When I hear you say:
"May the never be true".
Oh, die!