howbeit strong i seem to be,
i have sorrow inside and ask for forgiveness.
you, lady of an immaculate word
and i have misused your favour.
so i ask myself who am i?
once a hunter a fiance of fear now,
i may not turn and look up to your face after all,
it is not for the first time when i deceived a tenderness
and i have not said the last word
he emerged from the night, covered with the cloak,
with and exhausted horse and faraway expression.
how shall he address, ask for a shelter?
why was he carried with the wind straight hither?
i have flowers in my arms
and i hardly pull my legs in irons through the soil.
a crown of th*rns on my head
and a fruit of life of my blood is laying under my heart,
heavier than a stone.
it’s your sin that lead my ways astray in the rocky paths
the irons, the irons are your emotions.
i she’d my blood, the blood of your blood
and the blood of my blood.
may it become poison and you drink water with this blood.