Degenerate art

Degenerate art,

by shadowy lines of women's faces,

perfect legacies of nostalgia

of fluttering skirts

and of flowering peach trees,

with heavy steps

and tattooed smiles,

we arrive at the havoc of invisible lines

that dissolve at the cry of vengeance.
 

The wise hunchback who soaks up sweaty papers

and consumes pride on heaps

of yellowed knowledge by candlelight,

gives way to mocking guitti with loose tongues

and commanded will

by an ego indifferent to blood

and lies.
 

Adorable doodles,

they say they are hallmarks of an era,

marks on the gates of a brothel of dead souls