It seems to me that art is fake
Derived from lies and induced states
The ones whose paragons we place in glory
Are often plagued by self-consistory
Imprinted by some unknown curse
Or simply loathing, self-induced
I often think what life would be
Without those states of false reality
Maybe good or maybe bad
Without the shame without the sad
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem