The city of dreams wherein Brecht never dwelled
Yet far from the burrows and the tales of an old and wise fox
Unfolds before our eyes with no power to charm
The age-old mysteries of saints and camarades are funny
Yet more is thence bruised a fresh disappointment
A gap in the memories that one could not mind too much
Insofar as it is a faltering, an unreal presence.
The denizens parade with spectacular mascarades
Charades, green tiles of summer and raincoats
Like the wild beasts roaring from an unlove poem
Devouring the concept of "abroad" with a simple glance
Tearing apart the walls and the banisters, the blockades
That separate people into colours and hues of a shade
The parade is motionless, ridding on a yellow cab.
A festival of fools unmakes the air into non-magic
With the averageness necessary for the oblivion of oneself
While a certain lady journeys on a train and experiences
A certain lack of urgency in life that halts time
Her wooer, a Hamlet-like character wafts into laughter
In the cafes of the city, awaits for the moment of plurality
When a certain thought overcomes the betrayed bodies.
The exodus from Orion, from Occident
Benchmark of a certain loneliness of melancholy
The mute sounds of the morning Bacchants rise from a far
And slaughter their sounds before thin walls
That laugh with the sounds of lifes and world
That remember the uncanny days of their deaths
As one remember a beloved as an old knife punctures the turning point of that love.
It is only with this exodus that the city turns real
In between greens, un-meadows and Messianic hopes
The glorious moment of the disappointment before the lives
The psychosis of worldlessness, of Christian love
Only there, in the urgency of violence and desire
May this calm unfold for one night, as a little dream
Only thus can the Occident die with such great splendor.