Yellow fires in my dream -
all night long I mutter:
“Hold on, brother, bide your time -
morning’s always better.”

Morning comes, but nothing’s right,
ain’t no life of clover:
smoking on an empty gut
or boozing, still hungover.

 
 
 
 

There’s green damask in the taverns,
napkins gleaming white:
it’s paradise for fools and beggars -
but I’m a bird caged tight...

Priests smoke incense in the church,
barely any light -
no, it isn’t right, this stench,
it just isn’t right!

I race up the hill, don’t stop -
otherwise, god knows...
But an alder grows on top
and cherry trees below.

Give me ivy on the rise,
that would be a sight...
Give me something, something else -
but nothing’s going right!

 
 
 
 

By the river lies a field -
light or dark - no god!
I see bluets at my feet,
and a long, long road.

That road leads into a brake
full of wicked hags.
At the end - a chopping block
and a sharpened axe...

Somewhere all the horses trot
in rhythm, like a chorus.
But on this road, nothing is right,
and at the end - it’s worse.

Not the churches, not the taverns -
nothing’s sacred, fellas!
I tell ya, nothing’s right, my brothers...
It’s all wrong, I tell ya!