Heroism is a lie
attractive to young people
who prefer to deny hard facts

and, after some consideration, conform
to the game of the ruling power
when they discover the truth

They keep it to themselves and go
along with the deception to gain
fame and power as the brave hero

who defeated the monster, but
that fiction is not the scary thing
no, that is the darkness

the emptiness of the labyrinth
where a shadow play
deceives ignorant people

The monster is not dead
There are only the bones
of the annual victims

who were not eaten, but who
after their fear of it, realised
that it was their fate to starve

in the labyrinth of lies
for the voice of truth
sounds far too weak

We see each other as heroes
and that helps, yes, I too
can be wise and skillful
in handling the energy of life

realizing that heroes too
are tired after their tours de force
– the life-size warding off
not-living

My parents started it
I sensed their fears
and discovered step by step
more and more for myself

what is unsafe
Sometimes I wait in a corner
for what might happen
encapsulating with love and down

what imposes itself
inside and outside of me
I let it go, let it flow on
I'm balancing in the force field

I want to be healthy
not anaesthetize anything and yet
live a carefree life as if
we always wake up again

He was left sick
in a cave made up as a nest

with dates, figs, in leather bags
also water and wine, light and dark
emmer beer, syrup, bread, butter
cheese and mutton, all set ready
and hanging around his head

In the sweet scent of resins
he lay there as in a grave
and the moon watched over him
After three days he rose
from his dreams and his tears

He set out to cross the mountains
where no trees grow
Prince Lugalbanda
who adorned the young eagle with the lion's head
with kohl around its eyes

and fragrant sprigs of white cedar
on its head, and around the chick
he arranged the fat sheep meat
that he had salted, and chunks
of bread dough mixed with honey

The Storm-bird rewarded him
with the power to run
tirelessly and fast
like seven storms, like the sun
in its orbit in the sky

High in the mountains
the giants sleep on the roofs
no one sees them
we dream them

when we are young
and folded in ourselves
making great plans
for the world we know

we are already on our way
just landed here
for a while, to grow
on our sky canopy bed

until we wake up
as heroes who put right
what has been made amiss
by the little people

I knew the outside world
from stories: there are forests
and foreigners, mean people too
But always someone comes
to help, and I learned

you can be a hero
It's about the outcome
(the blessed life only starts
  with the happy end)

That's how I grew up
and the world grew along with me
so that my outside world got further
and further away, and I learned

daily life is boring and
it is unfeasible to be a hero
But my little son wants
me to tell something exciting

So I get brews
from the wizards of stories
I stir and boil them up
I let him feast

eager
to be soon grown-up enough
to go into the wide world himself
travelling to the happy end

and I keep silent how far it is
and that it is shifting away
every day, to the future
in which we won't be

He's doing the things
that stick in our mouths
He throws away the trash

which isn't his, because
the permits are no good
and he is not afraid

for the police, not afraid
for shambles, hospital
and scars, not afraid

to feel the depth
of a fall and then
sparking from short circuits

his head blowing
to pieces in milliseconds
and that's it

The permits are no good
and he's doing the things
that stick in our mouths

Underwater under pressure
from mama, I have a constrictor
around my neck, I'm in danger
of dying without a life
I'm a born heroine

Under chairs under the table
I am saving the whole world
with the utmost courage
every day. Just wait
until I'm grown up, a heroine

Under warm sheep's wool
under stars and clouds
I awake bleeding, defenceless
like a lamb, I sink
into my fleece, like a heroine