Текст и перевод песни BAP - Hundertmohl (studio, 1983: vom Live-Album "Bess demnähx")

Hundertmohl (studio, 1983: vom Live-Album "Bess demnähx")

Wie stonn ich neuerdings vüür dir?
Wie vüür 'nem Fremde, wie blamiert.
Ming Vis-a-Vis em Spejel ess von mir entsetz.
Et kann Jedanke lese un et sieht en Flut, die eskaliert – en Flut, met der et nie em Draum jerechnet hätt.
Spürt: Ming Latein ess koot vüür'm Schluß, weiß kaum noch wigger, doch ich muß, mich, dä Kassandrarufe su jähn övverhührt, sich met jottweißwat arrangiert, öffentlich Eins-A funktioniert.
Mich mäht jet, wat ich nit erkläre kann, bestuß.
Ejal, ob Rotterdam, ob Wien, bloß Bühne krißte noch ze sinn. '
T kütt vüür, dat do dodrop em Ritual verflachs.
Un immer seldener jelingt et dir, wodrinn 'ne Sinn ze sinn, je mieh de dich von Titelbilder selvs ahnstarrs. '
T weed surrealer Daach für Daach un isolierter Naach für Naach.
Föhls dich wie'n Kääz, die merk, dat se och ungen brennt.
Die trotzdämm enjemeißelt, routiniert wie Stewardesse laach un sujar Angs vüür Stagnation nutfalls verdräng.
Do schriefs jetz hundertmohl: "
Ich soll bei Ruut su winnisch waade wie bei Gröön.
Wenn't Jähl weet, will ich jonn." Mer hätt sich vill ze schnell ahn all dä Müll jewöhnt.
Kumm her, mir drinken eez ens eine op uns Kralle, die nit kratze, unser scheinduut Meer uss Träne un uss Wut, en dämm uns Hoffnungsfunke noh un noh wie Seifebloose platze.
Ussjeixt wie op ner Fahndungslist – met ruut.
Op dich, do Gigolo ahm Fließband dinger Sensibilität, die Ziele, die do uss em Bleck verloore häss.
Wo ohne Frönde mir wohl stünde?
Op all Sünde, övver die mer nie e Woot verliere, op die drink' mer jetz.
Mer mössen russ uss dä Sackjasse, die du Kismet nenne wills, dä komfortable Fall, en die dö ständig fälls.
Russ uss dä Einbahnstroße, die jepflastert sinn vun dämm Jeföhl, dat do dir selden enjestehß, datte verstells.
Schrief dir die Finger wigger bloodisch, schrei et russ, su laut de kanns.
Dann lääsch die Zäddel övverall hin, dat jet bliet, von dämm, wat wir jraad nit zem eezte Mohl begriffe hann, op beidze Sigge vun dä silverne Jlasschief.

Hundertmohl (studio, 1983: from the Live-Album "Bess demnähx")

How do I stand before you these days?
Like a stranger, disgraced.
My reflection in the mirror fills me with horror.
It can read my thoughts and sees a flood that is escalating – a flood that it never dreamed of.
It senses that my Latin is no longer enough, I hardly know what's going on, but I must, I'm the Cassandra who's been forced to see the future, to come to terms with who knows what, to function publicly as an A-lister.
Something's making me weary that I can't explain.
No matter if it's Rotterdam or Vienna, you only exist on stage anymore.
It happens that there, in the ritual, you fade away.
And it's becoming less and less common that you can find meaning in it, the more you stare at yourself on the covers of the magazines.
It becomes more surreal day by day and more isolating night by night.
You feel like a moth that notices that it's also burning from the inside.
That still smiles mechanically, like a stewardess, and even suppresses her fears of stagnation when necessary.
You've written it a hundred times now:
“I should slow down at red just like at green.
When the lights turn yellow, I'll go off.” We've gotten used to all the garbage too quickly.
Come on, let's drink to our claws that don't scratch, to our seemingly calm sea of tears and rage, in which our sparks of hope fade like soap bubbles.
You look like a face on a wanted poster – with red.
To you, the gigolo on the assembly line of your sensitivity, the goals that you've lost sight of.
Where would we be without friends?
To all the sins that we never talk about, let's drink to them now.
We have to get out of the straitjacket that you call fate, the comfortable trap that you're constantly falling into.
Out of the one-way streets that are paved with the feeling that you rarely admit to yourself, that you're putting on an act.
Write until your fingers bleed, shout it out as loud as you can.
Then spread your notes everywhere, so that something remains of what we've just understood for not the first time, on both sides of the silver shard of glass.