| I shall retrace my steps
|
| To cover up my tracks
|
| To conceal my taste for treason
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| To detach you from me
|
| And the hatred offered by a fathers heart
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| 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
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| 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… |