Translated by A. Z. Foreman - This is the Murder Age lyrics

This is the murder age. To sing baroque Fine tunes of my own life while thousands rot – Hanged, mortared, tortured, carpet-bombed and shot To d**h – now seems a truly nasty joke. The whole poetic stockpile of rococo, The moon, the stars, the flowers, the crooning dove The delicate discomfits of young love, All fly apart in blows of this sirocco. Now d**h rules. d**h of ma**es, with no face, Miserly d**h, sordid and commonplace: No cypress branches now, no solemn priests. As d**h has lost all dignity and shape So too does love now seem a thing of beasts. Every embrace of love just feels like rape.