You'll adorn yourself, you'll set foot in the rain
all the calamities of the world rumbling in your gut
all the refugees, all the nuclear bombs, and all the executions
neighing like a tramp pup in front a doorstep
in its eyes you will see a rare
ancestor
a mystique, long gone.
You'll sit with your parents, with your female friends, with your life questions
you'll draw a circumference within a square
you'll dream countless wishes that hang like dead soldiers
within the trenches of your own desert
and you'll understand - even among associates, you disassociate yourself
you're not. You're not. You're gone.
You'll buy flowers, you'll read something pleasant,
you'll go on a rest, you'll return far more exhausted
you'll do everything for that somebody to love you
you'll break dozens of promises of great magnitude
and you'll understand - even at your fullest, you're not full
you're not. You're not. You're empty.
You'll write a song.
In it solitude with no cost
the relief. It's calm. But you're not dead either.
you're not. You're not. You're alive.
EN 
MK