Eh?
What for heavens sake do you speak about?
I am a Christian on my own. And you seem to prefer to be a believer in atheism and to follow brainwashed nonsense-doctrines on your own.
Yeah - some people are indeed a little hypersensitive because Nazis and Commies murdered in masses people who did not believe in them. Many think people who need it to force others to believe in their bullshit should not be taken serios. ... Whatever. ... Do you like to know what you never understood in case of the Christian religion? Do you have any concrete question about something in this context what you really like to know?
Translation:
Through the sound hole in the guitar belly,
I can see him and hear
the songs he sings.
I smell that pungent whiff
of schnapps and see through the pipe smoke
how devoutly he drinks.
Listen to what he tells my wife,
hear how she laughs and asks questions,
and hear how he lies.
See how he plays with the children,
hold shells to their ears,
talks about Rumpelstiltskin.
How did this man get here?
What keeps him here, what does he want?
the one who sings my songs,
the one who drinks my schnapps,
makes my wife laugh,
gives my children shells?
He could also be Lohengrin
pull onto the stage in a boat
- his belly full of the sound of Wagner -,
stand at a bar in Flanders,
look through the schnapps glass at the pier
- on the oilskins salt and seaweed -,
with long-stemmed girls
with long-stemmed girls by fireplaces
who makes nostrils quiver,
as a priest and doctor in Hindustan,
who can also play the organ,
vaccinate children against the plague.
He could do all that,
on whom all eyes now rest,
the one who sings my songs...
He sings and chats, laughs and smokes,
He drinks and drinks and sucks and sucks,
His mouth never gets enough.
His tongue burns, dipped in liquor,
the glass he needs per hour,
he empties in one go.
When he talks to other women,
he only looks at their faces,
rarely looks deeper.
He lies that Rumpelstiltskin does not lie
lies under children's beds at night,
talks about good fairies.
A neat, well-groomed man,
who wears a tie and a white shirt,
the one who sings my songs...
What if he suddenly doesn't like it anymore?
when he smashes his instrument
and shouts commands out loud?
He doesn't stick his tongue in the shot glass,
he sticks it out at everyone,
to anyone whose nose displeases him?
How, when he forgets all shame,
and lets himself be dragged to the railway embankment,
chasing gypsy women?
Tells the children how it's right,
that Rumpelstiltskin eats children
and gnaws on the bedpost at night?
Don't trust him too much, be careful.
Even if he laughs so cosily,
the one who sings my songs...
