Wieder Eine Nacht

Another night, one of way too many,
when sleep just won’t come again.
And like so many times before, it pulls you against your will,
into the dark streets with no clear destination.

And carelessly, you kick, as if it were a crumpled paper,
a dead pigeon in front of you.
The girls are waiting by the wall at the train station,
they know you and haven’t spoken to you in a long time.

The man over there hides in the shadows, pretending to read,
and only dares to come out when your footsteps fade away.

Chorus:
Some of those you meet here are just like you, all alone,
some because they have no one, others want to be alone.
And they don’t look at you, they brush past you,
and yet they hide their distrust, their fear poorly,
as if their loneliness were already a crime.

And at every bar, you see at night on your way,
many strange men, glasses full in their hands.
They don’t want to lay their heads on the grease stain,
that hangs over every shabby hotel bed on the wall,

from the heads of many hundreds of other men,
who lay here before them, damned just like them,
drinking so the bartender will say a word to them,
with whom they wouldn’t show themselves, not in daylight.

She knows it too, without revealing it,
but surely she won’t let any of them into her bed.

Chorus:
Some of those you meet here are just like you, all alone,
some because they have no one, others want to be alone.
And they don’t look at you, they brush past you,
and yet they hide their distrust, their fear poorly,
as if their loneliness were already a crime.

And by the urinal, where the hustlers wait again,
under bushes and trees you’ve never seen so dark.
You turn right around and avoid this garden,
because you still have a picture in your mind from before.

The old gay man, early in the morning in the pansy patch,
his skull smashed in and turned on his belly.
His brain already soaked up by the flowers at night,
he lay there without pants, all skinny and drained.

From a life full of misery, how gray his death must be,
and his toupee still hung in the thornbush, wet with blood and dew.

Chorus:
Some of those you meet here are just like you, all alone,
some because they have no one, others want to be alone.
And they don’t look at you, they brush past you,
and yet they hide their distrust, their fear poorly,
as if their loneliness were already a crime.

Even in the waiting room, drunk men are dozing now,
talking to themselves, always the same line.
You sit down at the table with that bitter old bum,
who finds his warm spot here every night.

Fresh scars from old days almost covered in dirt,
at his wrist, the tattoo from prison.
Slumped over on the table, like most of them here,
with his head in a puddle of red wine, snot, and beer.

You wonder how he can still sleep, all bent and crooked,
and you envy him for that.

Chorus:
Some of those you meet here are just like you, all alone,
some because they have no one, others want to be alone.
And they don’t look at you, they brush past you,
and yet they hide their distrust, their fear poorly,
as if their loneliness were already a crime.

You sit there and slowly start to dream yourself,
you see yourself as a sick pigeon, barely moving.
You’ve laid yourself down to die,
in the air shaft of a building, far from air and sun and tall trees.

And from the grim window holes above your grave,
spit and stench continuously fall down on you.
You hear noises as your life force drains away,
from those coughing, spitting, cursing, not the worst of them.

But high above you, you can see a bright square,
a piece of sky, a piece of hope, you already move your toes.
You stand up, flap your wings, and awaken in the attempt,
to fight your way up to the spot that means life to you,
that only looks like a used tissue.

Chorus:
Some of those you meet here are just like you, all alone,
some because they have no one, others want to be alone.
And they don’t look at you, they brush past you,
and yet they hide their distrust, their fear poorly,
as if their loneliness were already a crime.