Believe me, I've seen Father Christmas with my own eyes. He is with us at our house at the moment and hides there. He smells like apples and like snow; perhaps he came from his forest. His eyes look so sad, he surely is cold.
Does anybody listen to me? Father Christmas is here with us. He's hanging around in the attic. I think he needs help and he's hard up.
Biscuits, nuts and wrapping paper are scattered all over the floor. Between two lists of wishes and a bottle of schnapps lies his student ID. The red coat and his white beard, even the boots lie next to his sack. A tipped over chair lies right in the middle. Written on a card is a greeting from him: "Merry Christmas, I hope you are doing well. Don't be angry at my escape."
He's slowly careening as if there's a slight wind blowing; in the rhythm with the candlelight burning in the corner. He hung himself up on a beam right under the window and when you're very silent, you can hear the church bells from here. A diary lies on the table and the last entry is a new one. Only one sentence he wrote big and wide: "I'm here and Bethlehem is far away."
Merry Christmas, I hope you're doing well. Don't be angry at my escape. Even so I'll watch you celebrate from here above. Merry Christmas, I hope you're all doing well. Don't be angry because of my little escape.
Frohe Weihnacht, ich hoffe es geht Euch gut. Seid nicht böse über meine Flucht. Ich schau' Euch trotzdem von hier oben beim Feiern zu. Frohe Weihnacht, ich hoffe es geht Euch allen gut. Seid nicht böse über meine kleine Flucht.
Merry Christmas,...
(Die Toten Hosen: Weihnachtsmann from Dach)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment