Франц Кафка - Возвращение домой - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

(reads: Catherine Semenova)

I returned, I went through the sense and look around. This is the old yard of my father. Puddle in the middle. Old, unsuitable utensils, chopped as hit, closes the path to the stairs to the attic. Cat was plugged on the railing. Ripped rag, once for fun wound on a stick, rises in the wind. I arrived. Who will meet me? Who is waiting outside the door of the kitchen? Smoke goes out of the pipe, boil coffee for dinner. You are secluded, do you feel that you are at home? I do not know, I am very inseparable. This is my father's house, but all items coldly neighbor each other, as if everyone is busy with their affairs, some of which I forgot, and the part never knew. What is my benefit from me, what am I for them, even if I and the son of your father, old farmer? And I do not dare to knock on the kitchen door, I just published listened, so that I could not catch the surprise behind this occupation. And since I listened to I published, I can't hear anything, I hear anyone's easy fight - or maybe only I think I hear, from childhood days. What else happens in the kitchen is the mystery of the sitting there they are stored from me. The longer you sweat the door, the more stranger you become. And if now, someone opened the door and asked me something? Would I be like a person who wants to keep his mystery?

(S.Aapt translation)