Horse-carriage

  Everything is hidden, gone away, never to begin again.
  A novel is a novel, everything in it has its place.
  The horses run ahead, dust billowing, hearts beating,
  Your ragged breathing catches, catches again.

  And it is pointless for our enemies to scour the road,
  For they can never find us in the dark stillness.
  For we can now probably only be seen by God;
  And perhaps even Him - though He sees us, He cares not.

  And somewhere behind us, behind the distance and the dust,
  We left a world of miracles. A man there decided,
  That he was born to make fairy tales reality.
  So he decided. But, it seems, in haste.

  The fairy tale he chose had an unhappy ending
  And he turned its ghostly evil into reality.
  Would that this reality could now be made back into a fairy tale;
  But there is too much to do, and not enough time;

  And so we ride ever onwards, fighting our sorrow,
  As though nothing is decided or known,
  As though, having lived our lives, we still do not know
  What is true, what is not, what is holy and what is sin.

  And the path is endless, and the time of payment is far.
  Troubles pass away, forgetting comes.
  And for me now - so true - so holy
  Your breathing, that I can barely hear in the night.