I was sixteen,
wanted to explore the world,
our house was like a cage.
My father just nodded and said:
You're of age,
so come to me, boy.
He fished in his pocket
and handed me a key.
He said: You know your path
and when you will have known the world and you wish,
you have a place to return.
This is your parental house.
Your parental house.
Your parental house.
Your parental house.
Some time had passed
and I received a letter,
my uncle wrote to me.
And I knew
before I started to read,
that my dad had passed away.
I boarded a train at once,
then I walked through the town
and wandered through the dark for a long time.
But when I looked up,
then all of a sudden as a shadow
it loomed over me,
my parental house,
my parental house,
my parental house,
my parental house.
Our fence,
broken windows and a few bare walls.
An old rocking chair,
but nobody sat in it.
There was a stranger inside,
dust on his clothes and a white crash helmet on his head.
The key fell from my hand
and my voice wobbled all of a sudden:
This is my parental house,
my parental house,
my parental house,
my parental house.
He said: You should have come earlier,
there's no time,
you'd better step back a bit.
In a few days
there'll be a new railway here
and the house was in our way.
Then a lightning flashed
and a terrible rumble
took the words off his mouth.
I stood there still
the black dust brought tears into my eyes.
My parental house,
my parental house,
my parental house,
my parental.