Eleven and one it shall be from time immemorial.
There may not be fewer or more.
Eleven and one and the master on top of that
practice at night the black art in candlelight.
Eleven and one, not one can be absent easily.
Eleven and one and the master who teaches them.
Eleven and one listen and he reads out aloud.
Crowing, the choir of ravens repeats.
Eleven and one, pay good attention and listen carefully.
Eleven are ravens and the other one is you.
Be patient, my friend, it won't be long
before the master shouts: "Shoo, onto the perch!"
At night raven feathers as black as coal,
at day white from flour as white as snow
and every year the Godfather comes to get one,
yes, every year one of the friends has to leave.
The master needs a new life
and one of us has to give it
and the mill wheel slows down and eventually stands still.
Eleven and one, yes, it's always been like that.
It will stay like that, tradition demands it.
Eleven and one will soon bear the black mark.
Eleven and one and the master is the number.
Eleven and one already wait in the candle smoke
in front of the skull and the book, that's custom.
It lies chained on the cold stone.
Eleven and one times strikes the clock, like that it has to be.
Eleven and one without wings are ready,
but in an instant you, too, get feathers.
You look at yourself and get frightened
when the master shouts: "Shoo, onto the perch!"
At night raven feathers as black as coal,
at day white from flour as white as snow
and every year the Godfather comes to get one,
yes, every year one of the friends has to leave.
The master needs a new life
and one of us has to give it
and the mill wheel slows down and eventually stands still.
Eleven and one and you, too, are now involved.
You listen late at night to the back litany.
Eleven and one and now it will soon be accomplished.
Eleven and one will soon know how it's done.
How to easily dry up wells,
how to enter someone's mind,
how to influence weather and how to stop time -
whosoever knows the black arts rules the world.
Eleven and one, they change their shape.
Whatever it is, soon it will be there.
Let it be a horse, a cock, an ox or serpent,
till the master shouts: "Shoo, onto the perch!"
At night raven feathers as black as coal,
at day white from flour as white as snow
and every year the Godfather comes to get one,
yes, every year one of the friends has to leave.
The master needs a new life
and one of us has to give it
and the mill wheel slows down and eventually stands still.
"Eleven and one and one on top of that are too many",
says the master, "eleven and one is the aim.
It's always someone's turn, he falls through the sieve
He who is superfluous dies because twelve is my principle."