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Tens human bodies

lay here

In cold and bright interiors

in nightmarish silence

They wait for the knife

and trained cut

for extraction of bowels

and bloody slaughter

Each of us will be there

Sooner or later, they'll cut us

We'll be dead, we'll be cold

Time will consume our bodies

Streams of black blood

drip from cuts

They flow down the skin

they flood hands and knife

Old, fouling bowels dacay

Rotting human remains

turn into dust

What is the sense

Of our life

If we all know

We'll turn into carrion

Clash of open bars

behind the door a human body

Rest on a stone table

strong rope on his neck

Sttiff, blue limbs

haven't a strength more

What is the sense of our existence

tell me!