In the colour of purity
devoid of life, he lies holding
the crucified in his hands.
Sans distress, sans lamentation.

Hesitated tears, confined words.
Nobody to chant prayers for the soul.
Inhabited recordings of prayers seemed
to take care of the soul.

Perfectly charted recordings,
devoid of emotions, nothing.
The so called love became fraudulent.
Rituals turned to burden.

In a fictitious world
full of forged feelings
with frigid time,
everything seems inhumane.