Father, we left, we abandoned our home,
The whole world now lives like wandering gypsies,
We took your picture down from the wall,
And placed a pair of tears as a lock on the door.
We left, oh, we left, we killed our birthplace,
Gathered in metropolises like hedgehogs in fear,
(Have you seen how a tree is shaken,
And the fruit clings together like figs in a string?…)
We squeezed ourselves into new troubles,
Lost the grass, the sleep, and the song,
Everything is ready in luxurious stores,
A psychologist’s shop, to polish even your heart.
We left, and we placed your grave in a video,
To visit you on Sundays through a glass screen,
With our minds, we lay flowers, two tears, a cigarette,
Living with symbols, in a world of manuals.
We don’t return to the village—we carry it with us,
Now everything fits inside a box,
This box, Father, is called a computer,
Through its glass, you can meet anyone.
Through its glass, you find a bride, have a wedding,
Kiss your brother’s sons on another continent,
And weep for Mother from thousands of miles away
As they lower her into the grave—via video call.
We will reunite only when we go down there,
Up here, we parted for life and for good,
I won’t write much more, for you know it well,
I am weak and drown in tears.
We don’t know where we are going, no time to think,
We rush because rushing is simply in fashion,
The whole world now lives like wandering gypsies,
Ah, leave… and weave baskets of sorrow.
