(Act 1)
in a ruin we stood against us and you said: "More is not!" Floundering
stagnant in the cold of a long-lasting, never-ending winter. Feeling pregnant angezecht from Ekeltrunk from boredom. Disillusioned out as early as the beginning of hope, because of disappointment läufts.
We could do nothing else but us, the nails of our burned your finger on the mossy walls to scratch bloody. And only briefly flashed where the musty passion blended with the red masked the reflection of a vitality that adjustment of the lie to the true picture. Short was known deceived by the terrible beauty that feilbot at what had rudimentary test of time and wanted.
Deputy Association our struggling for love minds in a porous rock mass, which was as cold as we are, if we protect our petty and timid self-conscious minds constantly with the heroic weaknesses make up the bleaching of the skin to cover and on the stage of our very own tragedy in the manner the dilettantes act for act a known game plan to follow.
The pride in mind. The bad, the hurt look, a look of too much already had seen from the showers, whose deep shadowy nuisances of continued unrest, from the duplicate insults, the eternal slave gear on a lead constructed repetitions he could never recover and even not have to. In the end everything will be stronger.
(Act 2)
All strength is only the conscious form of a recognized weakness. Much fear and love lie heavy in this pair of eyes staring into the darkness, a lot of disappointment and always disappointing to hope. The Greek myth of us from most evil augur of the Allbeschenkten teaches us that hope is good merely to be tormented again and again. It is she who in reality is the worst evil in the world because it prolongs the torments of man. For
hope contradicts the fact. Lets us remain in a state of disaster and inoculated us the juice of a deceptive worldly promise. Hope that is the Pull Along our childhood, that black and yellow wooden thing we paralyzed, like on a slave chain dragging behind us and have forgotten that it has no wheels more.
(Act 3)
Two larks singing in my ideal garden, to stand in an icy apple tree is so swayed. Meanwhile, fallen fruits complement the late yellow of the meadow.
- a silent reminder of a silent action. -
And in this rotten idyll is sitting on a worm-eaten bench my pale Gerda and, with her thin and long fingers joyfully in the leaves rain beschimmelten, gnawed by the musty smell of rot completely offset fruits and sings with his head down and her crystal voice of their children as :
There once was a king who had a garden
And this garden he loved
So much so that no one was allowed to enter
so intimate, painful, difficult
He built huge walls to protect his only chance
A gate with brazen bolts
The castle-and he keeps it closed
He never returned ...
Only sometimes, when outside of the North Wind
His tapping
breeze sings Then you can spot him recently
But then unfortunately you blind.
The walls of self-sufficiency are made of diamonds. If one understands me? I am not a fate? Against the status quo of a communication of silence I put the scalpel to mask reality, thinking of an old fortune, which is strictly speaking only the good old bad luck these days.
Behind? That uncontrollable I, tormented, misunderstood done, coward!
Signed: The one who I am.
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