Wieder eine Nacht [English translation]

One more night, one among so many others,

During which sleep does not resolve to come.

And, like so often in the past, you hang around against your will

In the dark alleys, without a specific purpose.

And casually, you walk along kicking1 a dead pigeon

As if it were a ball of paper.

There are some girls standing along the wall, waiting for the train.

They know you but haven't spoken to you in a long time.

The man over there carefully hides in the shadows, he's pretending to read,

And he is likely to get away alone, once your steps have moved away.

Some among those who hang out with you here are like you, are lonely.

Some are like that because they don't have anyone, others prefer to be alone.

And they don't look at you, check you out from head to toe,

All the while clumsily hiding their wariness and their fear,

As if their loneliness, from the outset, were breaking a law.

And in each bar you raise your eyes from your path in the night.

Lots of strangers, their full glasses in their hand.

The don't want to lay their head on that greasy spot

That, finding themselves in any seedy hotel bed against the wall,

Comes from the head of so many hundreds of other men

Who have been there before them; which condemns them

To drink without the barmaid letting slip so much as a word.

The kind of girl they would never show up with, at least not by the light of day.

She herself knows it very well too, without letting on,

That for her part, she would never allow one of them into her bed.

Some among those who hang out with you here are like you . . .

And near the pissoir2 where once again the male prostitutes wait,

In the bushes, the trees, that you had never before noticed were so depressing,

You turn away from them again and avoid that garden.

Because you have an ancient image before your eyes:

The aged homosexual man, early in the morning, in the flower-bed of pansies,

His skull shoved into the dirt, his corpse face down,

His brain, in the night, already absorbed by the flowers,

Stretched out there, without pants, all skinny, exhausted

By a life of misery so black, just like his death, so grey.

And his hairpiece still hanging from the thorny bush, damp with blood and dew.

Some among those who hang out with you here are like you . . .

Also in the waiting room, until now, the drunks are dozing,

Who always say to themselves the same sentence.

You also sit down at the same table as that beggar of Vermouth.

Each night, here, he finds his place in the warmth.

Some fresh scars almost mask the grime, a few days old,

On his wrist, the tattoos he got prison.

Leaning forward, he picks his nose on the table, like most of the people here do.

In a merry mood due to red wine, snot, and beer,

You wonder how he can still sleep, twisted, folded, bent over like that and you envy him for that.

Some among those who hang out with you here are like you . . .

You are sitting there, and little by little you start to dream,

You see yourself as a sick pigeon that barely shows any signs of life.

You are stretched out, far from air, sun, and big trees,

In the air duct of a house, to die there.

And the sad openings in the window of your tomb

Ceaselessly dump spit and stench on you.

You hear an uproar while your life force slips away.

Among those who wheeze, who spit, who swear, they are not the worst.

Yet, far above you, you can see a clear windowpane.

A piece of sky, a glimmer of hope, and you're already wiggling your toes,

You stand, flap your wings, and warm to the experience.

An absolute fight facing a beating, that's what life means for you,

Which, nevertheless, just seems like something you often blow your nose in.

Some among those who hang out with you here are like you, are lonely.

Some are like that because they don't have anyone, others prefer to be alone.

And they don't look at you, check you out from head to toe,

All the while clumsily hiding their wariness and their fear,

As if their loneliness, from the outset, were breaking a law.

1. According to ATILF, the French verb "shooter" describes a football (soccer) kick. It has alternate meanings of shooting up drugs and skeet shooting, which allusions are probably intended.2. The French version of this Wikipedia article is far more extensive and an interesting read, if your French is up to it.

• Artist:Hannes Wader
• Album:Der Rattenfänger