Lyrics

Instrumental

I dream of trees and orchids in scarlet spheres. I dream of seven moons shimmering above twilight chapels. I dream of hills overgrwon with trembling juniper. I dream of silent colonnades leading through stony archways in infinite gardens.

///

Acacia woods hem in mossy busts covered with ivy. Endless paths run under the dark branches of elder firs. Mon cher ami de pierre. Est-ce que tu as jamais revé. Est-ce que tu dors sous les voix majestueuse des arbres gris? Mon cher ami de pierre. Parfois, j’écoute ta chanson triste.

///

I grope my anxious way through whispering beech-forests. And I discover myself sleeping in my close bed. Under an ancient column with weather-beaten inscriptions. You, kissing my white cheek and crying silver tears. Can’t you help me, beloved one? Don’t wake me up, just wander with me in thy dream.

///

Lie down close to me. And let me see. Your poetry.

///

Mon cher ami de pierre. Est-ce tu as jamais pleuré? Pour le lierre tu chantes des serenades au soir. Viens, mon ami, danse avec moi sur les prés en été. Viens!

///

Of trees and orchids the wise man sings in minor. Ponds are reflecting the foliage’s play. The oleander is in bloom. And sylphs delight this fragile beauty. Oh, my trees, oh, my orchids, what a nocturnal romance. And don’t wake me up, just wander with me in thy dream. Lie down close to me. And let me see your poetry. What a nocturnal romance.

Instrumental

Here, under the calm branches of a lonely oak, I stand, listening to their fragile poetry and licking my mental invality. From afar I hear the hysterical thoughts of a desperate prisoner. I absorb sadness and gaze at his ethereal body.

///

A cacophonic tune pulsates through my vains, the oak’s leaves are trembling in an invisible wind. I am pleased about a timeless idea of the tree, defending me against sublime resignation on my philosophical journey. A chaotic cloud of subjective disorder submerges my wounds. I am paralysed by the stench of human vanity. New intellectual wounds are bleeding, the vehement pain of others is soothed.

///

Homo homini lupus? Are we condemned to bear this suffocating idioty for all eternity? Sometimes the relic of the hopeful metaphor of eternity satisfies my desire for cognition. In this fatal paralysis the idea of my mortal remains shimmers under the december full moon. Oh, my philosophical thoughts escape into the starlit constellation of Aquila, Lupus and their servants.

///

Here, in the diffuse interstellar atmosphere no psychic malnutrition mortifies my flesh anymore. The immense gravitation of black holes swallows my universal reflections, darkness rapes my misfortune, universe devours it’s elemental decadence. The starlight filters out my agony. Now the distorted harmony of cognition arises like an eagle under the wise age of Andromeda’s velvet eyes, an eternal euphony seduces the stars and suns. Harmony is reborn.

///

Often I wander through the cosmic spheres in rapture, observing the gloomy nebulas floating between the stars, infinitely! And in the nocturnal skies lies salvation, release for my deep desire. Firmament, galaxical endlessness, what a devine gift you are!

°°°
Erinnerung an die Hohen Bleichen

Weitab vom Lärm der großen Gegenwart,
verfallumwittert, ruhmreich und verlassen,
stehn stille Dinge Rings, verstaubt, apart
ein paar kokette Biedermeiertassen.

Darüber wuchtet bleich ein Imperator,
doch seiner Büste Würde ist gegipst.
Ein ausgestopfter Südseealligator
grinst glasig grünen Auges wie beschwipst.

Der bronzne Kienspanhalter Karls des Weisen
blinkt über Buddhas Bauch und seinen Falten.
Die Zopfperücke hat noch einen leisen
verführerischen Puderhauch behalten.

Malaiisch glotzt mit hölzern starren Zügen
ein Götze. Fahl erglimmen Zähne von Mulatten.
Verrostet träumen Waffen von den kriegen
und klirren lies in Rembrants weichem Schatten.

Der Totenwurm in der Barockkommode
tickt zeitlos in den ausgedörrten Wänden.
Betrübt summt eine Fliege ihre Ode –
das macht, sie hockt auf Schopenhauers dreizehn Banden.

Wolfgang Borchert (1921 – 1947)

And while my little friend, the nightingale is weeping in those woods. I, secure in my sleeping house. I am drinking the dark air. I am swimming in the end, I breathe the warm atmosphere.

///

Floating above misty fields. These days will end. The glassy hedge grews under seven moons. And I promise eternal love. I, secure in my sleeping house. I am drinking of the dark air.

///

I am swimming in the end. I breathe the warm atmosphere. Oh, I long for living words. Oh, I hunger for poetic flowers. Oh, I search for tranquillity in lyrical arts. Oh, I desire beloved silence for my tired limbs.

///

I curse you, don’t dream of me. I dismember your flesh. I lap your faith.
I sear you, my love. Don’t dream of me. I murder in words, seduced in poetry. I cry for totality.

///

Sing, little bird, sing. Please, gladden my mind, flying wish. Anxiously, I am hidden in my chamber. Hungering for poetic flowers. I am searching.

In withering trees, singing their song.

///

I did pity the terrerstrial eyes of an apathetic whore.

Instrumental