It’s a sinister linguistic diagnosis –
By a doctor, himself, suffering in psychosis,
Curing not even my own words my age utters,
Looking for people’s language patterns.
By a doctor if I ever could be called so –
Charlatan under the dungeon of an old chateau,
Describing – prescribing the spells on which others live,
Being a witch with only legerdemains to give.
Let’s call it a science above ethics –
A crazy scholar stuck in others’ pragmatics,
Judging the judge for his post-modern sanctions,
Blaming the youth for linguistic inventions.
A poor scholar of a doubtful school –
Who’s among normals simply called fool,
Deporting enchanted words out of simplicity,
Living in a new-modern antiquity.
Linguist I am, it’s my story –
I live in the prognosis of history,
Feeding myself with words others chanted,
Esteemed meanwhile horror haunted.