When the game is up,
-I know it, says the Accused, one has to go willingly.
-I wish to change my plea, where is the hyssop, bring it to me.
When the ostrokon is cast,
But in the onionskins of guilt and innocence, deepest kernel, toughest
geist,
He is and remains innocent,
When it's vox clamantis in deserto, or 'it moves even so...',
They may castigate to their heart's content, the outer shell,
But never could he agree, never could capitulate, the very hell he is.
When the Judge snuffs the candle,
Showing that out of the Guilty the light of God is gone, and none
should deduce to see it.
And tolls the bell three times, as for one who died.
And closes the book on the Guilty.
When even Franz K., that perplexed enemy of the people, it is,
Who at every stage protests his affront to the full,
But he knows, really, he knows,
From his very own mouth,
-It was the anniversary of my birthday.
-I know it, says the Accused, one has to go willingly.
-I wish to change my plea, where is the hyssop, bring it to me.
When the ostrokon is cast,
But in the onionskins of guilt and innocence, deepest kernel, toughest
geist,
He is and remains innocent,
When it's vox clamantis in deserto, or 'it moves even so...',
They may castigate to their heart's content, the outer shell,
But never could he agree, never could capitulate, the very hell he is.
When the Judge snuffs the candle,
Showing that out of the Guilty the light of God is gone, and none
should deduce to see it.
And tolls the bell three times, as for one who died.
And closes the book on the Guilty.
When even Franz K., that perplexed enemy of the people, it is,
Who at every stage protests his affront to the full,
But he knows, really, he knows,
From his very own mouth,
-It was the anniversary of my birthday.
