Ek’s die murg van ‘n gebreekde graat.
Ek’s die vriend van die man verby die skadulyn,
in die stegie van die nagstraat.
Ek’s die dwaas wat magtig op die troon sit,
en die ou malaat wat by sy voete smeek.
Ja, ek’s die duiwel in die dobbelsteen en
die anker wat die heks laat sink.
Dieper,
dieper...
dood.
Ek is moord! Ek’s Mefisto! Ék is die sekelmaan.
Ek’s die kraak, die draak, die toesig-en-beheersaak!
Ek’s die gooi, die rooi – die pyn, die wyn,
die sein wat vyf-en-dertig-duisend-agt-honderd kilometer
styg en daal en val; rond geruk, mee gestooi;
tot dat dit by iemand anders uitkom
wat dieper in die donker skuil.
Dieper,
dieper...
Translation:
I’m the marrow from a broken spine.
I’m a friend to the man behind the shadow’s line,
in the alley of the evening street.
I’m the fool sitting mighty on the throne,
and the old leper begging at his feet.
Yea, I’m the devil in the dice, and
the anchor that dooms the witch to sink.
Deeper,
deeper...
dead.
I am murder! I’m Mephisto! I am the crescent moon.
I’m the dragon and the crack, the custody case!
I’m the red and the throw – the wine and the pain,
the signal that thirty-five-thousand-eight-hundred kilometres
is hurled and drops and falls; is tossed around, struggled with;
until it reaches someone else
slinking deeper in the dark.
Deeper,
deeper...