Buy yourselves combs,
lousy times are coming.
Tomorrow's clad
in tattered clothes.
Hyenas are passing through grass
to their feasts.
I have my suitcases packed
since early morning.
I have seen along the paths
alleys full of slogans.
A fist pointing to the sky
and a man bearing
a flag stained with blood
of people standing underneath.
And from afar you could hear
a singing of the International.
Merry-go-rounds have come
to the meadow on the town's border.
A man in crimson hat
is shouting into a megaphone.
In a kneading-trough
you can see woodworms.
In the land of spiders,
the flies are on the verge of tears.
I have seen along the paths
alleys full of slogans.
A fist pointing to the sky
and a man bearing
a flag stained with blood
of people standing underneath.
And from afar you could hear
singing of the International.
My eyes are stained with black
and my heart with ink.
Lousy prophets,
you've already got your mercenaries' pay.
In the pale light of lanterns
we march as swarms of maybugs,
down the staircase to a gambling-joint
so that we lose the day.
I have seen along the paths
alleys full of slogans.
A fist pointing to the sky
and a man bearing
a flag stained with blood
of people standing underneath.
And from afar you could hear
singing of the International.