I was left with an island inherited from my girlfriend.
It was ten steps long, all made of sand.
I brought some soil stolen from a field.
I wanted to revive it; well, it was mine.
Finally I sowed grass in the early spring
and since then I could walk around my island barefoot.
I planted flowers, all of them decorative.
I used to bring from home buckets of sweet water.
Then, suddenly, a hailstorm wiped out what it could,
a sudden rise of water washed the soil away
and the island is all of bare sand again.
I planted a tree on my balcony,
a big, strong tree; I took good care of it.
I thought to myself: "When I’m no longer here,
the people’s memory of me will live in this tree".
And it was supposed to stand for eleven hundred years,
to last here like a memorial to my name,
but one day an angry wind ripped it off.
I built a sky-reaching castle on a high rock.
It shone majestically in the sun.
I invested all my savings in this castle
so that I could feel protected until my late years.
But my watchful enemy burrowed like a rat,
he poured gunpowder into several holes,
and when the night came, he lit the fuse.
So, everything that I touch
turns to ashes and dust.
I don’t really know where there’s a place for me.
So, everything that I touch
turns to ashes and death.
I don’t really know where there’s a place for me.