Novembermorje - BAP перевод на английский

Novembermorje

Samt un Chinaseid drähte, zeich sing Facette,
stolz wie ne Pfau,
danz durch Kaleidoskope, Derwische tobe,
Spatze sinn grau.
Novembermorje, Ruut ess Bloot,
Ruut ess Liebe, Ruut ess duut.

Färve explodiere, Stääne routiere
em naachblaue Meer.
Magier, Karavane, Gaukler, Schamane,
Silverpapier.
Novemberkalt, Novemberleer,
wiesu jraad jetz? Wiesu jraad der?

Dausenduneine Morje, zo huh jefloore,
zo noh ahn der Sonn.
Purpur, Joldlammee-Fahne, Schereschnett-Palme,
Märchebooch-Mohnd.
Novembermorje, dä eezte Schnie.
Dä Nachspann läuf, er laach nit mieh.

En Fedderboa, Henna, Wachs un Wüstensand
un Safran für ne Prinz uss Samarkant.

Rosa-Orange, woröm nit? Kei Problem,
em Räänboore ess jede Färv jenehm.

Er woor dä Muezzin der Phantasie,
der Anarchie, ahn Kette looch e nie.

Ich sinn en noch, wie e mem Bowie " Helde " singk,
en blaue Musik-Box un e Glas met ruudem Wing,

e Polaroid en nem Cafe en Taroudannt
un eins em Ohvendleech, er janz allein ahm Strand,

dä Marrakech-Express, die rostige Kaar
un noch eins, Ärm en Ärm, met singem Abdallah.

Er jing vun uns un trotzdämm blieht er he,
denn jed klei Bild vun ihm ess e Stöck vun singer Seel.

Novembermorje, et fällt dä eezte Schnie,
en graue Stadt weed wach, dä Zaubrer laach nie mieh.

November Morning

Velvet and Chinese silk threads, reflecting his facets,
proud as a peacock,
dancing through kaleidoscopes, dervishes raging,
sparrows are grey.
November morning, blood is red,
blood is love, blood is you.

Colors explode, stones rotate
in the after-blue sea.
Magicians, caravans, jesters, shamans,
silver paper.
November cold, November emptiness,
why now? Why him?

A thousand and one mornings, flown so high,
so close to the sun.
Purple, gold lamé banner, paper-cut palm trees,
storybook poppies.
November morning, the first snow.
The credits roll, he doesn't laugh anymore.

A feather boa, henna, wax and desert sand
and saffron for a prince from Samarkand.

Pink-orange, why not? Every color is welcome
in the rainbow.

He was the muezzin of fantasy,
of anarchy, never chained.

I am a fool, like singing Bowie's "Heroes",
a blue music box and a glass with red wine,

a Polaroid in a cafe in Taroudannt
and one in the evening light, him all alone on the beach,

the Marrakech Express, the rusty car
and another one, arm in arm, with his Abdallah.

He left us and yet he remains here,
for every little picture of him is a piece of his soul.

November morning, the first snow falls,
a grey city awakens, the magician never laughs anymore.