Keeping the distance
and staying close together
with dangling arms.
The father the uniform,
the son with Rasta hair.
The Father's got Prussia in his rucksack,
the son on the surfboard
towards the mouth of the river.
The Father travelling,
the son the internal emigration.
The Father the letters,
the son doesn‘t speak.
Father, who takes it easy,
son to his heart.
Fighting each other without rules,
more seriously than anytime at the playground,
longer than lifelong.
The Fathers never die,
one hears since ears have existed,
and seldom do the sons live.

English version by Sapphire/Ramona Lofton