Deborah

     Can you hear the whisper?
     Can you hear what they say?
     Can you hear the cries of the lunatics?

Deborah’s just seventeen
And she would likely look pretty
If her face wouldn’t be bloated by the pills

She’s standing at the window
But she’s not looking out
Her eyes are empty and cold

She doesn’t see anything
She doesn’t hear anything
At all events not from this world

So she walks the institution halls
From morning to morn
From meal to meal – that’s her life

     Who can draw the line between
     Delusion and reality?
     Who can decide who’s normal and who’s insane?

She didn’t understand this world
In which she was looking for love
So she began to build up her own world

The physicians called it schizophrenia
They declared her mad
And they locked her up

     Who can draw the line between
     Delusion and reality?
     Who can decide who’s normal and who’s insane?

          Everything we don’t understand
          and everything that is different
          Everything that disturbs our eyes
          and everything that touches our conscience
          Everything that doesn’t adjust to the society
          we push off and lock away.

Translation: