Sturmpercht - Der Knabe Im Moor

This song by Sturmpercht belongs to the album 'Geister Im Waldgebirg´' Lyrics O schaurig ist's, übers Moor zu gehn Wenn es wimmelt vom Heiderauche Sich wie Phantome die Dünste drehn Und die Ranke häkelt am Strauche Unter jedem Tritte ein Quellchen springt Wenn aus der Spalte es zischt und singt O schaurig ist's, übers Moor zu gehn Wenn der Mond sich spiegelt im Moos Fest hält die Fibel das zitternde Kind Und es rennt, als ob man es jagt Hohl über die Fläche sauset der Wind Was raschelt drüben am Hag? Vom Ufer starret Gestumpf hervor Unheimlich nicket die Föhre Der Knabe rennt, gespannt das Ohr Durch Riesenhalme wie Speere Voran, voran! Nur immer im Lauf Voran, als wollt es ihn holen! Vor seinem Fuße brodelt es auf Es pfeift ihm unter den Sohlen Der Knabe springt wie ein wundes Reh Von einem Stein zum andern Ein kalter Hauch weht in seiner Näh' Als würde der Tod mit ihm wandern Da birst das Moor, ein Seufzer geht Hervor aus der klaffenden Höhle Der Knabe schreit: "Nun ist's geschehen um meine arme Seele" Aber allmählich gründet der Boden sich Und drüben, neben der Weide Die Lampe flimmert so heimatlich, Der Knabe steht an der Scheide Tief atmet er auf, zum Moor zurück Noch immer wirft er den scheuen Blick: Ja, im Geröhre war's fürchterlich O schaurig war's in der Heide! The Boy on the Moor How dreadful it is to go over the moor When it is teeming with will o' the wisps And mists are whirling like phantoms As brambles are hooking on bushes. A pool springs up below each of his steps When from the cleft it hisses and sings How dreadful it is to go over the moor When the reed beds are rustling in wind! The child all atremble holds fast to his books And runs as if he were hunted; Hollowly whistles the wind o'er the plain- What's rustling there in the bushes? The ghostly ditch digger it is Who steals the best peat from the master; Hu, hu, it sounds like a cow that is mad As the boy ducks low in his fear. From the bank, the stumps stare forth The pines are eerily nodding The boy runs on, pricking his ears, Through gigantic grasses like spears; And how it crumbles and crushes in there! That is the unfortunate spinner That is Leonore who is spinning enchanted Winding her distaff there in the reeds. Onwards, onwards, but always at speed Onwards, as if it wanted to catch him; By his feet it's swirling and seething It's whistling under his soles Like a tune set to haunt him; That is the treacherous violinist; That is the thieving fiddler, Knauf, Who stole the marriage farthing. The moor is breaking asunder, a sigh Rises up from the cavernous gap; Woe, woe, it is damned Margret who calls: "Ho, ho, my poor little soul"! The boy leaps on like a wounded deer: Were protecting angels not near him, His whitened bones would later be found By a digger in a dried up peat ditch. Gradually, the ground becomes firmer And there, next to the meadow, The lamp flickers so homely. The boy stands at the border; Deeply he breathes, and back to the moor Casts yet another horror struck look: Yes, in the reeds, it was a terror, How dreadful it was on the heath! The interpretation that makes the young actor of these scenes is more than impresive. The foregrounds of this boy are a treasure...