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r_m_rilke @ 2004-08-31T16:23:00

Песня идиота

(Translation E. Witkowski)

They do not interfere. Give a walk.
They want to please me.
Well, well.
whatever. Spinning anything and everything,
praising the Holy Spirit,
you know a - praising, -
well, well.

In fact, it is dangerous to deny me,
scary thought: at someone's fault
suddenly take yea pyrnu.
Blood inconvenienced. Blood is heavy.
Sometimes I can not suffocate from evil.
Well, well.

Oh, what a huge red circle
high, high up suddenly, -
you have it done, I'm very happy -
or he arrives, when told to?

How strange it all behaves:
from one another somewhere to swim,
then turned inside out, vice versa.
Well, well.

Das Lied des Idioten

Sie hindern mich nicht. Sie lassen mich gehn.
Sie sagen es könne nichts geschehn.
Wie gut.
It can happen. Alies comes and deals
always around the holy spirit,
to the right spirit (you know) -
as well.

No one must not really mean it
was any danger there.
There's of course the blood.
The blood is the hardest. The blood is difficult.
Sometimes I think I can not -.
(. As well)

Ah what kind of a nice ball, red and round like a
everywhere.
good that you made it.
Whether it comes when we call?

How very strange the,
they flock together, apart floats:
friendly vague, a little. How
gut.

Demonia Bootsbreak-in

r_m_rilke @ 2004-08-06T13:18:00

Boy

(Translated T. Silman)

I would like to be the same, I like those,
that horses furiously commanding,
with torches, like a cloud of fire,
fly toward winds in the dark. In the first chariot
be among them ...
As I unfolded the banner, as in the canoe,
nesus forward. Sparkling hat on me
disturbing brilliance. And for me to series,
being born out of darkness, the soldiers go by.
their helmets - like dim lights:
burn, shimmer, shine them.
and sound air horns shocked,
space is gone, swept away,
around a lonely one,
we zipped through it like a dream.
And falling on his knees at home,
street and meet us tremble,
and the area is about сойдут с ума,
и кони, словно ливень, землю хлещут.

The boy

I want a be like the
driving through the night with wild horses,
with torches, blow the hair right aufgegangnen
in their hunting big winds.
front, I would be rolled up like in a boat,
great and like a flag.
dark, but with a helmet of gold, which shines
restless. And behind me
ranked ten men from the same dark
with helmets, which, like mine, are unsteady,
soon clear as glass, sometimes dark, old and blind.
And one is in my room and blows us
with the trumpet, which flashes and screams and blows
us a black solitude,
as we race through a rapid dream
The houses fall behind the knees, the lanes
bend towards us wrong, some of the
soft: we sum up our horses and rushing
like rain.