I am a novelist, the pen clenched in my fist
In this long November night
I’ve got a pot of tea, My cat is here with me
I guess we have some time to write
You may not remember me, I’m one you cannot see
And you’re a figment of my mind
But I remember you, and I will relate to you
How both our fates are still entwined
At the time you were the hero of my tale
Knowing all too well if you won’t cope, I’d fail (Oh, oh)
You had a charming air, the looks were also there
My beta reader thought you hot
And so I set up stage, filled you with lust and rage
And thought that you could drive my plot
As time wore on you proved a brick and a stubborn mule
Leaving my novel to look like the work of a fool (Oh, oh)
And then my plot was gone, I could not carry on
While you were roaming wild and free
I gave you one last chance: Abide my will and prance! –
And my poor muse gave up on me
That one day in spring, my dear muse left my side
But, before she did she took my hand as she madly cried: (Oh, oh)
»Fight him, write him
Make him spend his life between your pages for ages
Drag him through your book and when he rots there, plot’s there
Fifty thousand words and he is done!«… Weiterlesen
The God of Fire I was called, but god I am no more:
I owe this fate to Balder, and to Odin, and to Thor.
In Asgard I would make my home, I dwelt among their mitts.
They envied me my beauty and my powers and my wits.
Of all the gods the folks did love, they loved me most of all,
So Odin and the likes of him made sure I had to fall.
And now I’m lying here. The poison burns my face.
I cannot die in here. Ropes tie me to this place.
But soon enough I will be free, for Ragnarök is yet to be…
and I will kill them.
Of all the gods I used to know, you were my closest friend.
To have some drinks and have some fun were things you’d understand.
As I enjoyed your tantrums, you dealt well with my mischief
And you were not among the men to name me liar, thief.
I dressed you up as Freya fair, to be a giant’s wife:
To me you owe your hammer, Thor – to me you’ll lose your life.
And now I’m lying here. The poison burns my face.
I cannot die in here.… Weiterlesen
Mein ist der Schemen, der hinter dir schleicht
Mein die Gestalt, die dem Auge ausweicht
Mein ist die Stimme, hörst du mir auch zu?
Ich bin der Jäger. Die Beute bist du.
Dein war der Hund, der zuletzt hat gebellt
Dein war der Falke, der zur Erde nun fällt
Dein war das Pferd, das nun schwarz ist von Blut –
Sag, du magst Jagen? Das find ich gut.
Mein ist der Schemen, der hinter dir schleicht
Mein die Gestalt, die dem Auge ausweicht.
Ich lasse dich rennen, bis Blut ist im Schuh
Ich bin der Jäger. Die Beute bist du.
Ich bin der Schatten vom Bär und vom Hirsch.
Ich bin der Wolf und der Fuchs auf der Pirsch.
Ich bin jedes große und kleine Getier.
Ich bin dein Jäger und gleich hinter dir.
Mein ist der Schemen, der hinter dir schleicht
Mein die Gestalt, die dem Auge ausweicht.
Mein ist die Wildnis, das letzte Tabu.
Ich bin der Jäger. Die Beute bist du.
Dein Haus hast du aus meinen Knochen erbaut,
aus meinem Blut, meinem Horn, meiner Haut.
Die Jagd war dein Spielding, dein Opfer war ich,
So warst du mein Lehrer, denn jetzt jag ich dich.
Mein ist der Schemen, der hinter dir schleicht
Mein die Gestalt, die dem Auge ausweicht.… Weiterlesen
I could not kill you, brother, your blood I cannot shed
I’ll never rip your heart out and still I wish you dead
If we would ever meet again, I’d fight with gun, with knife
there’ll never be a chance again for me to take your life.
you once have been my brother, your blood runs in my vein
so if I bring myself to death, you are the one who’s slain
I’ll gladly slit my wrists for you, if only you will bleed
I would have loved to take your life, but nevermore we’ll meet
pray do you feel it thumping?
pray do you feel the pain?
your blood is running down my hands
your blood is red as rain
look here this edge is dripping, the floor is turning wet
the light is growing darker, I feel I’m turning dead
but it is not as if I die, that thing is up to you
for since you took my life away, it’s all that I can do
pray do you feel it thumping?
pray do you feel the pain?
your blood is running down my hands
your blood is red as rain
pray do you feel it thumping?
pray do you feel the pain?… Weiterlesen
O Mistress Alma’s children, two girls aged two and three,
have closed their eyes forever, the sun no more to see,
have closed their eyes forever, the sun no more to see,
It was their wicked mother, them of their lives bereft:
She shed their blood, but shed no tear upon this wicked theft,
but burned them by the oven’s flames till nought of them was left.
She next began to weep and wail, and through the streets she’d run,
she cried: »O come and help me, please, my children, they are gone!«
She cried: »O come and help me, please, my children, they are gone!«
»There came three elves from outland, three elves came to my door.
They sang a song so sweet and cold, it chilled me to the core,
they’ve robbed me of my children, I’ll see my babes no more!«
The people in the village, they thought her story true,
for stealing fair young children is what all elves love to do.
For stealing fair young children is what all elves love to do.
And even Alma’s husband would still believe his wife
He thought not that the ashes cold once burned with children’s life,
and as all folks did pity her, the murderess could strife.… Weiterlesen
Down in the ground beneath the roots of yonder tree
her bones lie buried deep, for no man’s eyes to see…
He would not love her half as much as he loved gold,
and she would never do whatever she was told:
He had to kill her, that’s one thing he won’t regret:
No one will find her in her earthen bed.
Tree, tree, Lady Tree,
– hide my secret where none may seek it –
Tree, tree, Lady Tree
– grow my shape for all to see!
The years went by, and yet the lady found no rest –
Killed by the man whom in her life she’d loved the best.
Her spirit touched the tree that grew upon her grave:
If not for justice, then for vengeance she did grave.
The years went by and by, and as the tree did grow,
the lady’s features it would start to show.
Tree, tree, Lady Tree,
– hide my secret where none may seek it –
Tree, tree, Lady Tree
– grow my shape for all to see!
And then his friends would come and talk about the tree:
»Is it not strange? The thing looks like a girl to me.«… Weiterlesen
Mine is the shade that is walking behind.
Mine are the footprints you never will find.
Mine is the voice that is calling your name.
I am the hunter. You are the game.
Yours were the hounds that will bark nevermore.
Yours was the horse that’s now dripping with gore.
Yours was the goshawk that ne’ermore will fly.
Do you like hunting? Well, so do I.
Mine is the shade that is walking behind.
Mine are the footprints you never will find.
I’ll keep you running until you’ve grown lame.
I am the hunter. You are the game.
I am the shape of the bear and the stag.
I am the fox and the wolf at your back.
I am the wild boar and I am the roe.
I am your hunter wherever you go.
Mine is the shade that is walking behind.
Mine are the footprints you never will find.
Mine is the wilderness you’ll never tame.
I am the hunter. You are the game.
Of my blood and my bones, your castle is built.
I’m every creature that ever you’ve killed.
Of hunting, you’ve taught me a lesson or two,
And well I did learn it, for now I hunt you.… Weiterlesen
Was ihr heut Garten nennt ist unser Friedhof.
Da hüpft und spielt dein Kind auf meinem Grab.
Dort wo die Büsche sind, da stehn die Steine, so alt und grau,
die Schrift verwittert, doch ich kenne sie genau.
Da stand ein Haus aus schwarzem Stein, darin wohnten wir.
Wir lebten gut, denn wir hatten Macht.
Wir herrschten über jeden Mensch, über jedes Tier
Bis dann das Feuer kam in der Nacht.
Das ist so viele Jahre her, doch nie vorbei …
Was ihr heut Garten nennt ist unser Friedhof.
Da hüpft und spielt dein Kind auf meinem Grab.
Dort wo die Büsche sind, da stehn die Steine, so alt und grau,
die Schrift verwittert, doch ich kenne sie genau.
Das Feuer kam, jedoch durch wen, das erfuhrn wir nicht,
denn es hat keiner den Tag erlebt.
Es fraß uns auf mit seinem gierigen roten Licht
Und unser Zauber war ausgewebt.
Das ist so viele Jahre her, doch nie vorbei …
Was ihr heut Garten nennt ist unser Friedhof.
Da hüpft und spielt dein Kind auf meinem Grab.
Dort wo die Büsche sind, da stehn die Steine, so alt und grau,
die Schrift verwittert, doch ich kenne sie genau.
Weil wir zur Lebzeit so böse warn, wie man sagt,
bracht uns der Tod auch nur Tod, nicht Ruh:
Man hat uns direkt aus dem Himmel wieder verjagt,
wir drehn der Hölle den Rücken zu.… Weiterlesen
You call it garden fair, but it’s our cemetary.
Your child will skip and dance upon my grave.
And where the bushes grow, you’ll find our stones, they’re so old and grey –
Their words are weathered, but I know what they do say:
The was a castle with black walls and it was our home.
We were magicians of wealth and fame.
We were the lords of every man, every beat to roam
until the night that the fires came.
It was so many years ago, yet it’s not past…
You call it garden fair, but it’s our cemetary.
Your child will skip and dance upon my grave.
And where the bushes grow, you’ll find our stones, they’re so old and grey –
Their words are weathered, but I know what they do say:
The fire came yet who did light it, we’d never learn
for no one lived till the break of day.
With greedy flames all of our skin, our bones did burn
and all our magic was cast away.
It was so many years ago, yet it’s not past…
You call it garden fair, but it’s our cemetary.
Your child will skip and dance upon my grave.… Weiterlesen
Zwei Brüder erbauten ein Haus sich aus Stein
in den Bergen so hoch, in den Bergen so kalt.
Der eine saß nachts mit den Büchern allein,
der andre saß unten mit Freunden beim Wein,
und wenn dort ein Kind lacht, so wird es nicht alt.
Herr Fion war finster, so schwarz wie die Nacht
in den Bergen so hoch, in den Bergen so kalt.
Es dürstet sein Herz nach verstohlener Macht,
und niemand sah jemals, dass er mal gelacht,
und wenn dort ein Kind lacht, so wird es nicht alt.
Herr Davy war froh und so hell wie der Mond
in den Bergen so hoch, in den Bergen so kalt.
Er hat auf der Jagd keine Gemse verschont
und hätte am Liebsten im Wirtshaus gewohnt,
und wenn dort ein Kind lacht, so wird es nicht alt.
Doch eins hatten beide im Herzen gemein,
in den Bergen so hoch, in den Bergen so kalt.
Jung Lioba sollte die ihrige sein,
und jeder sprach bei sich: »Ach, wär sie doch mein!«
Und wenn dort ein Kind lacht, so wird es nicht alt.
Einst ritt Junker Davy hinaus auf die Jagd
in den Bergen so hoch, in den Bergen so kalt.
Er hat seinem Bruder Lebwohl nicht gesagt,
und der hat nicht nach seiner Rückkehr gefragt.… Weiterlesen
