Howbeit strong I seem to be, I have sorrow inside and ask for forgiveness. You, lady of an immaculate word and I have misused your favour. So I ask myself who am I? Once a hunter a fiance of fear now, I may not turn and look up to your face after all, it is not for the first time when I deceived a tenderness and I have not said the last word He emerged from the night, covered with the cloak, with and exhausted horse and faraway expression. How shall he adress, ask for a shelter? Why was he carried with the wind straight hither? I have flowers in my arms and I hardly pull my legs in irons through the soil. a crown of thorns on my head And a fruit of life of my blood is laying under my heart, heavier than a stone. It's your sin that lead my ways astray in the rocky paths The irons, the irons are your emotions. I shed my blood, the blood of your blood and the blood of my blood. May it become poison and you drink water with this blood.