Victim of the Reign of Guiltiness

I was condemned to death.

Guillotine made of a blunt blade

To give me a painful demise.

Guilty of a premeditated crime.

Perpetrated it to resolve

An intrigue of unconscionable immorality,

I have indulged in my forlorn pleasures,

But I felt like the Czechoslovakian man.

 

I made two hypotheses before my execution,

One where I become a fugitive and disguise myself under a rock.

I write little letters to my beloved and make an epistolary novel out of them,

And later print it in a feuilleton.

I bury my concealed guilt to persist and become an obscure being.

Despise those who have been engulfed in my chasm,

On a whim, turn me into a bug with a hard shell.

 

Another one where I was pardoned

To rationalize my condemned soul.

Suffering, oozing from the stones of the Bastille.

My body triggers Dermatophagia.

I bite my nails till my fingers bleed

And with the blood, I painted the fortress.

Later they take me to the guillotine.

I climb onto a scaffold to meet

The apparatus that resolves my fate.

Have a moment of epiphany,

And the remainder of my life now counted into minutes.

 

In the midst of all the individuals,

I no longer hear the rhythm of my heartbeat inside my head,

But rather in vain.

The oozing sound of my blood

Coincides with the voices singing lullabies,

Serenade me to my last breath,

Demolish me discreetly and shamefacedly but very accurately.

Men and women with heavy shovels holding the earth.

Like that, I exist no more.