Текст песни Otto Dix - Мужчина, который не пишет проз

Your hands, so cruel,
I worshiped like guillotine
You in the rank of art erected vice,
And painted the knives of words of the picture.

The castle is an old, taking threat -
A man who does not write prose.
Drinks as if water, angel of tears
A man who does not write prose.

The owner of my hungry dreams
You yourself have ever been part of them
You disappeared the waters of cold
Not allowing to understand what happiness mean

In the hands will not warm the frozen rose
Man who does not write prose
Drinks as if water, angel of tears
A man who does not write prose.