No perfect being yet founded in higher comprehension
To now yield an impulse and call it not a prophetic revolution
For the format of mankind remains the same in the plethora
Of the tragedies of failure for war and destructions enigma
Simonies driven from greed so thus we can’t be beyond linear
Of the perfection of uniformity in exact correlation of fear
So thus a storm may echo the anarchy in the hidden agenda
Tempered and displayed in the misfortune of egoism’s warrior
You hold the shell for the egg of your predictions to decide
To crush yourself for ignorance of a camouflaged pride
As the stirring of truths so subdued by kinship gravities
Before the sun rise’s on a new day, symmetrical of yesterdays
Ensnared by the common language of the netted speak
Under valued in exploration for that of something less meek
Cowardice for the agony of contamination from your perfection
As the coincidence of ourselves ponders the limits of resurrection
As I stand in the graveyards’ of this greatest contradiction
The symbolism to render memories yet for life’s extermination
Pities the long mourning so needless and so overtly practiced
If but for one more day we could desire to live so unconvinced
As yet we fall to the texture of words versus truest meaning
That own self acknowledgement in the modern era is fleeting
Behind the demand of sustenance for the blood of another
Blinded to the observing few so powerless to and for the other
As though the translation of dreams yield more so in permit
To ask the questions and yield the query to finally submit
That every second is the pulse of the greater being we cannot see
As with the presentation of death in spectre we turn and flee
So co-exist in the dormant state of acceptance to never truly be
The singular entirety of enquiries beyond dreams of complexity
When hollow angels sing from within a gagged and shuttered heart
A chorus toward a new age of the gilded soul when days’ shall finally start
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem