Confronted with a stack of papers, a disputeabout land reform matters, each time I start
in earnest my psychosomatic headache ap-
pears, we need the living dead, a confirmed
zombie to work through these files
I cannot club my spirit unconscious every time
I wish to do my job, if only something could make
me angry or scared enough to find zombie words
the lesser of two evils, but I suspect life beckons
and beautiful words are waiting to sing
Lovely stories are waiting to be told, beautiful
dreams are waiting in the wings, ready to fill
the seeking mind, visions of a new world are
on the verge of consciousness; how should I
knock myself unconscious so that
I can use the magic of life and time to stare
at empty lines repeating themselves in boring
uniformity, how to enjoy my job, create fun for
everybody if I have to cut my wings
on a daily basis – no wonder
Humanity has become a psychological case to
be managed by chemicals and medication to
deaden mind and spirit, kill initiative, douse
the fires of passion before they start…
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