When living in dystopia,
It pays to be opaque.
Like giving in to cornucopias,
Of fact within the fake.
The brand's for low achievers:
Who pine for greatness past.
Who stump as harder leavers,
And so the die is cast.
There's something in the ether,
By caustic stream is fed.
The collective mind is fevered,
As it's poisons spread.
When existing with myopia,
As all your vistas shrink.
Like the orange beast: sinopia,
And a mean and base instinct.
So prepared thus for the slaughter,
As for the coming battle.
Bestirs the stillest waters,
Of the peons, slaves and chattel.
There's something in the ether,
Some subtle scent of dread.
Like veils torn from believers;
The shuffling, walking dead.
So famed exotic divas;
All shock and rock and rattle,
Switch economic levers,
To the market's tittle-tattle.
Götterdämmerung - fire and fury,
On our puckered lips.
Should we all thank Madame Curie,
As we call in all our chips?
There's something in the ether,
By which our mind is led.
An arch and cruel deceiver,
Of a truth untold, unsaid.
There's something in the ether,
As in our daily bread.
Perhaps the virus, is in us;
That we can't see ahead!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem