|
i shall retrace my steps |
|
to cover up my tracks |
|
to conceal my taste for treason |
|
to detach you from me |
|
and the hatred offered by a fathers heart |
|
will always keep brothers apart |
|
we are tranquil and benevolent |
|
we don't like noisy surprises |
|
we stay on the move |
|
for stillness brings death |
|
and slowness brings fear |
|
we men of cold politeness |
|
shall never melt into that kindness of yours |
|
no matter how we try |
|
you say why weep over what? |
|
we say weep until the weepings done |
|
and we shall weep for another day |
|
for what binds us to our grief |
|
binds the sculptor to his clay |
|
for what binds us to our grief |
|
binds the sculptor to his clay |
|
we are the most alive |
|
the most rootless |
|
with whips and chains we cross |
|
the ruins of Europe |
|
and from time to time |
|
trapped in reflections |
|
we feel there's no place |
|
no home for us but this land |
|
this land is mine |
|
this land is yours |
|
you only suffer as long as you want to |
|
men like us do not let each other drown |
|
we share the sweetest black bread |
|
that delicate grain of scorn |
|
no god, no master, no master slave |
|
i no longer serve you, nor your palace of flesh |
|
when loneliness spreads out between our sheets |
|
our sacrifice is a knife at the throat of time |
|
but we shall cut it up some other day |
|
for what binds us to our grief |
|
binds the sculptor to his clay |
|
for what binds us to our grief |
|
binds the sculptor to his clay |
|
in life, in love, in longing |
|
i know |
|
i deserted like you |
|
without wealth, without property |
|
without official title or office... |
