Ich glaube nicht [English translation]

Now and then I flagellate and scrupulosly scrutinize myself,

and ask myself severely, whether I believe or not.

It only takes a little bit of torture, then I make myself confess,

that firstly I don't believe anything and secondly know nothing.

I only believe, that, if He really did exist,

He wouldn't like at all, what happens in His name down here!

First of all, I believe that all those holy-water-basin-frogs

and the way too big houses, that allegedly belong to Him, bother him.

Do you really believe He is keen of lackeys and earthly property,

of yes-men and real estate? I don't believe!

I don't believe, if He really existed, that He'd like it very much,

if anybody obstinately claimed to be His deputy

and infallible. I don't believe that He appreciates,

when muddled views are promoted as „His will“.

I bet my buttocks: He is neither amused about that twaddle and balderash,

nor about this mummery and showing-off,

nor about kissing rings or this smug piety,

nor this stupidities-and-follies-spreading-in-His-name.

Do you believe He wants someone to speak in His place,

some mediocre person? I don't believe!

I don't believe that He, in His wisdom and eternal decisions,

cooked up such an abnormal thing like celibacy,

otherwise He'd have thought of something different to preserve our species,

and would not have attached such magnificent tools to us.

What a sacrilege it is, to tinker around with it, to circumcise,

to mutilate! To suffer from it instead of enjoying it!

And if willie and pussy hadn't fitted into His masterplan,

don't you believe, that He'd have simply left them out?

Hey you there, poor bungle, you overweening gnome,

do you believe you are allowed to snip them? I don't believe!

I don't believe that He's delighted by the infernal noise,

when you ring your bells into the divine silence.

I am sure He regards it as a despicable blasphemy,

when you slaughter little lambs to bribe Him,

and it causes Him sickness immediately, when He thinks of ritual slaughtering,

or of the slimy hypocrites, these godless wicked beings,

who lure little children to come to them,

only to fumble in their pants.

I don't believe that He sits enthroned in your ostentatious palaces,

I rather believe that He lives with the least of my brothers,

more likely with the junkies, the homeless in the parks, than in Rome,

rather in slums, slaughterhouses, ghettos, than in domes,

with grandma Krause on the ground floor, in an Aldi branch,

rather in the red-light district, than in a cathedral,

where crooked-headed, hands-kneading figures make people feel guilty,

in a vain and self-righteous manner, as if they walked Him on a leash.

He will not sit in your dark, muffled and anti-lust crypts,

but rather under the open skies in the warm clear air,

next to me, on the bench in front of a gazebo,

with a bottle of Deidesheimer Herrgottsacker.1 Yes, I believe!

Yes, I believe!

1. Vineyard in Germany