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