We are dead

We are dead,
Our nation,
our grace,
our soul,
are dead.
A cemetery of belligerent silhouettes,
but with claws of black soot.
We care about the baleful buzz of social,
of padel with friends,
not even a rite of passage,
of the watchful eye of the waiter
Serving courses on the way out of the tomb.
We care about paying less tax,
about shouting in stadiums
or in rooms filled with yellowed memories
And smells of lily and malaise,
but we are dead.
We are dead
And we knock numbly at the sober man's door
For the stirrup cup.

We are dead,
but we wait for the eternal return,
to pay for our expectations of infernal merry-go-rounds
And indifference to the victims of the future