It were for what we seemed

Our golden ages together

In which we unleashed time

as slaves of love, tightly bound

by winged words freely frolicking

along sharing the two paths of life

the time when we as angels

still flew so all Jesus Lord high

that we only with the Song of Songs

of our hubris on our lips

tempted fate by the barricades of heaven

and hell between us and

storming and breaking them down

We tenderly shattered the days

And fluttering like a bee by the grace of God

Eating miles of butter horny desire

as if they were kilo bangers turned man-made

full of tenderness, we took all the time

to bathe ourselves in everything of value

without making the slightest mistake, completely defenceless

because the black beads of all our nights

were still rosaries to be prayed

that unforgettable pastime

with which we made love without restraint

because the realization did not want to ripen

that we and the night itself were still far too young

and now the present time

that we only know without a word of explanation

and forgive simply by forgotten

that in the pasture of our desire after all,

we were not for each other, the true lambs

in the slaughterhouse of live

the golden ages together in what we were

made us no more than credulous lies

for the soap bubbles of a future,

nobody wants to share

in sickness of hell