In merchants' houses
there always seems tot be a big party
if there is a pig they cut its head,
the house of the merchants, hidden, armored
from the rest of the world, protected, isolated.
In servants' house one waits for the party
but if it doesn't happen to be that they the hope stays,
the house of servants, house to be repaired,
at first shake it could even collapse.
The merchants' house is high on that mountain
the servants' is low, after the bridge.
But the fears, go down
while the dreams, go up,
go up.
Merchants' daughters, pale and beautiful,
open the windows and normally there are the stars
They seem to be happy but the boredom is in the ambush
in their gold, enchanted privilege.
Servants' daughters have red cheeks,
they suffer, they dye their skirts red,
they read novels with pink waves,
they dream of palaces and wedding dresses.
The merchants' house is high on that mountain
the servants' is low, after the bridge.
But the fears, go down
while the dreams, go up,
go up.
Merchants and servants,
the same life,
dreams and money,
sand between the fingers,
sand between the fingers.