Holy Roman Empire
and its Hakenkreuz.
I hear it in my spirit,
It starts to fall,
Flake even.

In open areas of sylvan and pastoral jazz.

On the iron plating of
Spandau, situated at
The confluence of the Havel and Spree.

Along the rails of "we the children from
Zoo Station."

Inside the books about
Katharina, the burned out postmaster.

And at no daylight, no time frame
—the Final Solution, Auschwitz.

I hear it in my spirit,
It starts to fall,
Tell me how I fear it.
Do we buy hatred for our health?
Is it really worth the taste?