I have a postcard at home|
on which a church, a cart with a horse,
A pub, a lady on the bike,
it probably does not tell you anything,
but it is where I was born.
This village, I remember how it was,
the peasant children in the classroom,
a cart that rattles on the boulders,
the town hall with a pump in front of it,
a dirt road between corn,
the cattle, the farms.
And along the garden path of my father
I saw the tall trees.
I was a child and did not know better,
then that would never pass.
What did they simply live then
in simp'le houses between green
with farm flowers and a hedge.
But apparently they lived wrong,
the village has been modernized
and now they are on the right track.
For see how rich life is,
they see the television quiz
and live in concrete boxes,
with a lot of glass, you can see
how or the couch is at the neighbors
and d'r dresser with plastic roses.
The village youth is a bit together
in miniskirt and beatle-hair
and joins some of the beat-music.
I know, it's their right,
the new time, just what you say,
but it makes me a bit melancholy.
I still knew their fathers
they bought liquorice for a penny
I saw their mothers skipping rope.
That village from then, it's over,
this is all that remained for me:
a picture and memories.
When I passed my father's garden path
the tall trees still stood.
I was a child, how could I know
that would pass forever.