The Unyielding (expanded English version)

it's a bit sharper than the original, which has a more casual and fun tone.

Unyieldingly fierce,
playfully mischievous,
we roll down the old enchanted plains —
we are not murderers.

Our playful axes are not bloodlusted,
nor savage saints,
chasing out the capitulated fog
from the still damp, too narrow dungeon.

The meaning of life rolls sweetly —
lazy and uncompromisingly bare across the searing floor.
Everything makes sense when existence itself hosts a playful pastime.
Each new swing is a step toward a new, unexperienced freedom,
each stroke a guitar that screams shamelessly
and gently guards a fresh cultural note.

We dash into the open distance,
just so we don’t hear or see the bastardized quote.
In true love, everything is given by heart and forever free —
if you truly love, you don’t kiss a girl in decimal degrees.
No one and nothing mentions
the irrational or trivial sum.

We are battle-born drums,
the bright sight of the perfect moon,
devastating and humbled Sonne,
songs that strike and guide as one.

Today, you’re a misunderstood, little sparrow,
all bumping corners look pale and seismically narrow.
Tomorrow, your drunken heart flies and seeks a black, one-horned stork.
In the end, we all search for some unshakable ground of our own —
our war-drenched, proudly elemental, and fiercely bombarded soaring storm.

We all want to come… home,
even if we die proudly and alone.
We all want to come… home,
even if we raise our sword and touch our rightful throne.
We just want to feel the touch,
we just want to come to the place called home.

In all this pain, in all this struggle —
this is the only and valiant antidote:
to see white towers,
to hear the inner whispers of perfect white walls,
to feel the free wind and come —
to be at home.

Unyielding, we have become fierce.
Playfully, the finest dreams carried us —
charmingly mischievous.
We roll down the old enchanted green plains.
Certainly, we are not blameless saints,
chasing the coiled fog from the still damp, theatrical dungeon —
we earned our mighty sails.

What happens when the most potent and lustful love suddenly fails?
Which happy raven holds all insightful details?
Do you sense the heavenly masquerade?
Do you feel the touch of new blazing rain?

The day is a blind night;
there is no real morning without a true story
and its misted insomnia.
The meaning of comically written life
sturdily and precisely rolls —
lazy and uncompromisingly bare across the searing floor.

Everything makes sense
when existence itself hosts a playful pastime.
We came to stay,
stole the finest celestial note.
Each new winged swing is a step into some new freedom.
We drink from the well of spent joy,
we extinguish the burning water.

The meaning of life insightfully rolls —
lazy and bare across the searing floor.
We dash into the open distance, just not to hear,
not to see the bastardized, stylized quote.
We are coming in full force.

In true love, all is by heart and generously free —
learn how to truly live,breathe.
It’s not for empty hearts,
nor for even emptier, overheated heads.
No one and nothing speaks
of irrational price or trivial amount.
Sometimes, our storm-stricken masts
are unconquerably just
and vigorously blunt.

Today, you’re a little sparrow,
tomorrow your drunken heart flies
and seeks a black, one-horned stork.

Unyielding, we have become fierce.
Playfully, dreams carried us — charm-filled and mischievous.
We roll down the old, enchanted green plains,
chasing the coiled fog from the still-damp mining dungeon,
carrying bold, old and new, fast refrains.

The day is pitch-dark, vampiric night —
there is no true morning without real insomnia.
Everything makes sense
when sincere existence hosts a playful pastime.
The meaning of life rolls —
lazy and bare across the searing floor.

We dash into the open distance,
just not to hear — brain-dead, allocated existence,
not to see the bastardized and sterile, wrapped quote.
Everything makes sense
when the song gives birth
to the finest word,
the best possible note.

In true love, all is by heart,
and every kiss is spoken for free —
only the unlucky and the blinded fools
love those they kiss on contaminated terms.
No one and nothing mentions
the irrational and trivial sum.

We are battle-born drums,
the bright sight of the perfect moon,
devastating and humbled Sonne,
songs that strike and guide as one.

Yet still,
even the greatest loves from time immemorial
sometimes end up on a slippery, selfish fence.
It all depends on how electrified the heart is —
how much patience it has
to wait,
honorably,
for goodness to be shown.

Today, you’re a misunderstood, little sparrow,
all bumping corners look pale and seismically narrow.
Tomorrow, your drunken heart flies
and seeks a black, one-horned stork.
In the end,
we all search for some unshakable ground of our own —
our war-drenched, proudly elemental,
and fiercely bombarded soaring storm.

We all want to come… home,
even if we die proudly and selflessly bleeding alone.
We all want to come… home,
even if we raise our sword and touch our rightful throne.
We just want to feel the touch,
we just want to come to the place called home.

In all this pain,
in all this struggle —
this is the only and valiant antidote:
to see glowing white towers,
to hear the inner whispers of perfect white walls,
to feel the frisky wind and come…
be at home.
No brave heart there sleeps unjustly alone.

HP Lebencraft 2520