We woke up in the adult winter, we grew old.
How is that? There was childhood’s summer last night…
Maybe we were in coma, being wayward in mind?
Or, just as everyone, we vanished in the infancy loop?
Scarecrow crookedness in a herd is set by a dog,
Which is eating the good days of dreams
And impressions’ infinite pleasure,
Covering all of this with grief mold over the years.
We don’t exist anymore, but it seems we do! So, who we are?
In perishable skins, slowly going to death.
And there is only way out – only to accelerate,
Having thrown the killed one’s chains on the wharf.
But nobody said that the hopes are void.
This world is misbirth, if it is quite inane,
In little bodies, underdeveloped ones at different phases
Outcast children remain in pain.