Zombified workaholics labouring Turning this malediction into voluptuousness Satisfied with worthless achievements Soul-destroying and trivialising Making us impersonal Adopting life styles that we do not like Soldiers, slaves to consumer society Transformed into objects without a spirit In pursuit of temporal goods Moving away from the inaccessible eternity We are but frantic zombies Consumers of flesh in all its forms Satiating day after day our vile needs Repeating the same empty gestures In an unconscious funeral march I'm searching in vain for a metaphysical link Between our most repetitive acts Those marking the rhythm of our day And that certainty of nothingness Breaking through my insomnia We live in the shadow of death We're worshiping it behind derived imagery From crucifix to images of God From labour to our foolish amusements Without knowing that death is guiding us We're continuously running away from it Giving meaning to our lowest acts But suffering from all sorts of sickness There is a time at which one must die to remain worthy The fear of void in our hearts Afflicted souls refusing the inescapable nature of death We are aimlessly wandering With the sour taste of a meaningless life Into the anteroom of Nothingness Between the dying and the dead