Silent rain
grim city of initiates hunchbacks
Where did we end up?
In the hell of gothic cusps watched over by billionaires with wounded souls,
gasps of vengeance, eyes everywhere;
proclamations of days ever the same and flashes of lightning
that do not cleave the fog populated with scraps of humanity,
pornographies silent and denied to the point of exhaustion,
puritans dressed as bats.
Is this the law of Gotham?
Alienating alleys, silhouettes of semi-humans hunched over mist
warmed by a black sea.
Where is everyone?
Where are they working?
A world without class conflict,
governed by the neuroses of those who aspire to madness,
fluttering over the gloomy roofs of the immortal scourge.
butler's humanity does not redeem Joker's laughter,
savage anomaly,
plot that eludes the motionless mask of the billionaire
who has dyed dark sepia
the colorful pew
and suppressed the dream of the multitudes
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