26.11.2020
The Arrested Flight
Versions: #1Like the fruit that has fallen without being able to ripen:
man's fault, the wind's fault.
Like the man who knows when he sees himself die
that he will never have time again.
One more day, he could have sung:
fate’s fault, luck’s fault,
fault of those strings that had broken,
his song will be called silence.
He can always start it,
no one will ever come to dance,
no one will pick it up in chorus.
He will never have finished anything
apart from that wound to the heart
and this life.
Why, I’d like to know, why, why
does the end of the dance come too early?
It's the birds, never the bullets
that are stopped in mid-flight.
Like those arguments that were started in the evening:
night’s fault, alcohol’s fault
and of which later there will be nothing left,
only a few cigarette butts on the ground.
He would have wanted to strike so badly:
knife’s fault, fear’s fault.
He will have made no fight to the blood
just the time for a little sweat.
He who would have liked to know everything,
he couldn't even see everything.
He who had love in his body
for the only one he would have kept,
he returned his boat to the port
without kissing her, without touching her,
just thinking about her until death.
Why, I’d like to know, why, why
does the end of the dance come too early?
It's the birds, never the bullets
that are stopped in mid-flight.
He wrote like one who gets out of a trap:
sun’s fault, torment’s fault,
but, like he used the snow as paper,
his ideas melted in the spring.
And when the snow covered his page:
frost’s fault, winter’s fault,
instead of writing he was trying - courage
to catch the flakes in the air.
But today it's too late
he will have missed the start
and the only memory of him will be
the song before the fight,
the escaped one who will not have
achieved his goal.
Why, I’d like to know, why, why
does the end of the dance come too early?
It's the birds, never the bullets
that are stopped in mid-flight.
It's the birds, never the bullets
that are stopped in mid-flight.