A silver fog is filtered through the cobblestone cracks, its ashy tendrils reflective
Everywhere, antiquated bicycles are left on the dirty streets
The night is blue-black
As if a cicatrix is imprinted upon its cheek
People nowadays all seem dulled, as if by some opiate
Their lackadaisical eyes are weighed down with a metallic deadness
Their lids rest lazily on their pupils’ moons
There is a paucity of gambits nowadays; these fatalistic thinkers are scared by passion
The Earth is cold, fallow
There have been no obsequies for years now, only burials
The houses that line my street are filled with cadavers, ghostly entities that fear life
On the contrary, I have lived in penury
I was a young, hopeless bibliophile who read for inspiration and needed nothing more
Choleric at a young age, I battled myself out of my desolated hovel
Only to find myself here, a world devoid of emotion
These people are dying of decadence
So when I die of something exotic and complicated,
Dare to cry for me
And when this world withers away from starvation,
Its epitaph shall read
“Trophaeum Peccati”