Triangles of half-open doors Reveal all the truth that is hidden: Just condoms and cans on the floor, Black papers with verses, forbidden - Unfinished remakes of the song, Deprived of the right to speak loud Of wicked intentions gone wrong - Erasers have muffled the shout. The only illusion-proof mind - A poet, the voice of despair, Sincere, the one of this kind Throws verses far into the air Right there, in a dirty old flat Among once great talents, now rotten. They all have deserved more than that, But even their names are forgotten.
