Covid-20

Buried deep in polluted feelings, slight is the comfort of nightly news the silence around Arch of Triumph will it always be as now? This tragedy I still cannot fathom, the wicked hand of destiny has humbling lines with no shade of virtue or hope. Time used to fly and now the eternal sea of time has dried up its creatures crawling by my side, a scornful sight! Pencils and papers, alas writing is no refuge, piss on them. Cross over torrents, cheated visions our inglorious race, keeps faith in basement, its noise chased away, and the shady floods of pitiless waves, like thunder-blasted trees crowd a doomed struggle. This virus is too powerful to destroy, gushing mutants at moment of oblivion. All my days are trances, I dwell alone reading Neruda's Song of Despair, listening to Virus's last laughter to my curses born of nausea. A ghastly thought: we all underestimate the severity of situation speaking lies to our power to heal, to restore our dreams, disabled reason, aching brains gunned down by nervousness, the old masters who taught us hope are dead, their fiery strengths gone. The darkness wraps, its symptoms everywhere, the vulgar nature's breeding the next war, give not the gentle nod of denial, the false vigor unworthy of quotation. The ordeal is dress rehearsal for the next pandemic.