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They have come to burn the orchards |
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They have come to burn the seeds |
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But the quicksands of denial |
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Are no fertile grounds for such deeds |
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And we walk in stray of shafts of light |
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To the pyre glade |
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The plea is still in your eyes |
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What a fine father you would have made |
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Now you'll be buried in your soldier's tunic |
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And not many will attend |
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For what flowers would one pick |
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For a god who has met his end |
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And we who are not yet fallen |
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Remain grouped among the distant trees |
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Our checks still flushed with funeral wine |
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A bloodless oath, a black winter tulip |
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And some gentians to complete the bouquet |
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Your death has made me an accomplice |
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It has made us all recall the day |
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Your life remained but a flash |
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In a spark of black fire |
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Blot out all hesitance now, brothers |
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Blot out all doubt |
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For something is already slipping away |
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For something is already slipping away |
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Mit uns die Sonne, mit uns das Meer |
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Mit uns die Sonne, mit uns das Meer |
