[Part 1:]
My text has no goals and no ambitions
But it's chilling in his apartment, stoned, on hard drugs
Everything around him is swampy, it's cold and dark
Warm drops of nose blood fall onto the ceramic floor
Sweatpants and undershirt are his wardrobe
Not a good prospect, all hope has long since died
His big brothers brought home good grades
He, on the other hand, flew when he was about 15 years old. >And has nothing for rich bigwigs except hate slogans
Fucking lying motherfuckers, don't worry
As long as they're the winners, they don't care if we're doing well
What crabs , caviar, cake and coffee beans
They don't want to see the reality in the theater box
My text will never reach an executive suite
It will forever stay down here, with the poor people
My text has no success and no chances
But my text is at least this entire verse
[Part 2:]
My text has none fixed commitments
He never has to go in any particular direction
He runs along the street without a destination and without a map
Sunbeams decorate his path with bright colors
He makes himself no worries about where he ends up today
So he is always happy with where he is at the moment
His path is independent of coordinates
He simply follows his nose instead of a compass needle< br/>Mountains and valleys become his promenade
Fresh air fills his lungs, he feels the trees breathing
Once at the summit he looks down
At tiny house facades that stick out on the horizon
Microscopic electricity pylons and villages gather
On the edge of the green hills that grow out of the ground
He enjoys this moment in the big, wide landscape
Just for himself, he doesn't have to take a cell phone photo
My text cannot be put into a template
Any kind of restriction is like the death penalty for him
My text is more than the sum of vocabulary
My text cannot, so to speak, be put into words

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