The Ballad of Gangrenous Mouths

 The vultures of this brutal Present are still snarling, their feathers are being plucked, the chains of the ordinary little man are rusting, because "some" up there have long since fallen ill with liver-eating. The plundered depths of Being are already continuously pounding, as if the underworld and hell really existed at the same time. Black-soup curses are smoldering on talkative lips, because our memories have also become knotted and there is no one left who would find a worthy way to cut the Gordian knots believed to be insoluble. 

It is as if everyone denies themselves more than three times, although the rooster does not crow at dawn to warn them; every artificial moment is colorless, like the scenery of poorly constructed stages, because helplessness has already become a little bit tarnished, just like good human intentions, because curious eyes its shining pieces of pottery fell one after another into the swirling, often confused wells of the All-intoxication. Because every search for miracles created new and new dissatisfaction. 

The rock-solid humility of travelers would be sought in vain today by those who would claim it; the expensive rhythm of understandable, sincere movements has become petrified. Now existence has been spurred on by a lot of envy, hatred, and everyday compulsion. Because even the carrion flies have spat on each other. 

The humming bass voice of howling hounds crowns the increasingly poor, faded, nightmare-filled nights. Leaning on each other, they wait for one more predictable roast pigeon, because the petty gang spirit still rises and falls in the early evening. The dark sewer smell of Nihil permeates everything and everyone with a lasting, massiveness.