We live in the impenetrable fog,
The perfect expression of impotence,
Where no one is capable of leading
Or following, where “Imagine” becomes
“Wouldn’t It Be Nice” and bright ideals turn
Like sour milk into clichés, where the love
For one’s kind scratches out a meager life
In advertisements dripping with the sighs
Of nostalgia, the moans of Peter Pan.
We are victims of having been gathered
Into masses, transformed into dreary
Statistics that reveal the opposite
Of the intention: that we have destroyed
The right of a human being to choose.