11.05.2018
The ten commandments of hobos - Don't disturb the dream of God
We always saw the church tower firstThat's how we knew which town we approach.
Then we started to hammer on the top of the truck's cabin
Stop, brother, here it will be OK
Around the churches were standing the weak, the left-behind
Those who never dared to get started to anywhere
Neither the dream, nor the unknown attracted them
They staid and comported
One must appreciate them, for they are the Homeland.
The hobos of my age banged not on the gates of castles in the pouring rain
Asking for admission, accommodation, warm meal
As the bloodshed decreased they were looking for each other
And were waiting for the dream shivering with cold in the blood-red night.
Throughout centuries laws were issued against them
The last was called parasitism
If they caught you and you didn't have a house, work
Stocks, labour service, wounds, stomps, chains.
And then escaping to foreign soil.
Passport is a beautiful word, like love
For me the music was my traveling document
I couldn't afford any more, yet it was more than I deserved
But music knew no borders
And it found a way here above, between, below the wires.
I considered myself a vagabond
I started with open heart, ignorant brain
I had no destination, I was just going
Jack London gave me my name and my cross
Always keep yourself to the road.
I thought that this was going to be enough, that this way I'll be free
Nobody ever saw the Book of Hobos
Perhaps it was never ever written
Or even if it exists somewhere, it has no letters
Only pictures, maps, signs, drawings, sounds, fragrances
In order to be accessible to all vagabonds
We know no languages yet we understand each other.
The real hobos are homeless
The stupider ones are tourists
They just originate from somewhere, and at old-age they tell tales about that
How good is to return to somewhere
This is a lie
They only tell this, to make people love them at their old-age.
The grey-haired hobo - what a nice role
The late Prodigal Son returns as a veteran
His children watch his movements with distressed heart.
He should have apologize them, but instead he gifts stones and tells tales
Sometimes even signs a song with heartbreaking self-pity.
I got tired, I got old
Oh, where are thou, my Lord?
Cheer up, I've returned
Oh, where are thou, my Lord?
Steadfast servants take care of me
Oh, where are thou, my Lord?
I didn't confess for long, I'm sick
Oh, where are thou, my Lord?
And even that old, sick, lame, hunched
Oh, where are thou, my Lord?
He appears to be mysterious in the eyes of the family
Oh, where are thou, my Lord?
He left them several times
Oh, where are thou, my Lord?
Then he asked for money immediately
Oh, where are thou, my Lord?
The egoist bastard knows
Oh, where are thou, my Lord?
That they will forgive him
Oh, where are thou, my Lord?
But where's the prayer for the family left
Oh, where are thou, my Lord?
He didn't lie to himself
He loved his children
Less his women
But more than everything else he adored the road
And now approaching the end, he doesn't want to give in lonely
Alone is good to tramp, but not to die.