As if all melodies became stormy passion (Wuthering Heights) (Sometime it becomes inhuman )
Only on your love to her
And her love to you
It seems to me thus:
Even if I read from the history only bit by bit
- again I may not see that film -
Becomes where only suffered and died
Even in the dear dizziness already the end is to be foreseen.
A too young face which only edges out
Now and again in thoughts is to be endured
Weird hair, from today nothing more
Is to be recognised
Then becomes clear painfully
how much time has passed.
Not that I may never fancy to this
He would not interest me
But I also want to see him suffering only endlessly not always
Him, to the born in 1962, some aged
Me the time allows to edge out
Because from somewhere here wrong recollections must be taken in addition
Because I do not have other.
Because I do not want to see
Or did I see and did take him once again right?
How I could cosuffer, share...
If inside over and over again a longing anew
Outwardly wants to penetrate
And gives unreal tones of himself
Melodies are enough and few running pictures
Again show that what seems already known.
The saying which is so: “The Evil which of the spectators may?!“
Now exact text must probably be cancelled
If itself the embodiment of the sympathy invents,
over and over again anew and one likes it just?!
Then is and remains thus for all time
Should prescribe to you: “Put on always a mask, with it yours
Face to tears does not touch if it grief carries.“
Say me if attractive people want to play only villains
And people who are not blest from nature and thus of property a little
plausibly can play...
I want to see like it is to be felt!
There it needs eyes, mouth, a longing smile what you never forget - or only very hard-...
With a scarred face one would fast feel necessarily compassion
But with his?
The story seems to correspond there, nevertheless, like by itself...