Didn't they fry us something,
whether it was a sign of vain hopes.
Whether again slowly bent
we slowly fall asleep and become easy.
Did they put pink lenses on us,
to be blind to new mistakes
and a lifetime, without end,
let's march left-right again.
But no chance like our parents
to be grey, helpless spectators,
No, not a chance, because we have tasted freedom.
A whirling-headed tribe reborn,
like the morning after nightmares.
A whirling tribe looking for the stirrup,
to run madly forward again.