These furnitures are grotesque.
I see them around all day along.
They never change, they irritate.
They have no use.
Those wardrobes offer me no clothes to wear;
No reason to dress up,
No reason to look anyhow;
Yet they lock up clothes of no usage.
Those chairs are spiteful;
No one sits in them,
And call no one to sit;
Yet they are so many.
Those tables are horrid;
Half empty-half stucked,
And the whole thing is for usage;
Yet they don’t make me to put on them anything.
Those shelves are judging;
Holding those read and unread books,
And the thick dust on them all around;
Yet there’s no reason to approach the whole.
The desk, with the no use computer –
The stove, with the cold cole in it –
The cupboard with glasses filled with air –
The fridge that doesn’t open randomly anymore –
The carpet that detests the steps on it –
The mass grave of bathroom cabinets –
The insignificant pictures on the wall –
The wooden ceiling that just covers them all,
and this bed I am lying in with no use
Are just grotesque.