Kult - Latający holender

The wind sweeps away the tang of sounds
And songs flow into the distance
The beads of lamps on the shrouds tremble
On the fairway, foam shivers
On motor ships, the captain’s ball still continues
Dawn is still far away
But when the sparks of the lamps fade
Where the Zodiac's light trembles
A lonely wreck drifts on West-Sud

And on the deck, three girls, three black cats, and three dogs
And not a single trace of the crew remains
The sailors have drowned, tears fall onto the crests of the waves
Swept away by the wind from the dark lashes of the girls

Like a black bird cutting through the silence
The helpless sails hang from the yards
In the open hatches, darkness creeps like a snake
It's the Flying Dutchman
Piercing low mists with rows
Of shattered masts wrapped in gloom
When the rudder’s wing brushes the current
The creaking yardarm sways
The forgotten log gurgles in the water

And on the deck, three girls entangled in the ashen veil of mist
Their nocturnal sobs are drowned out by the ocean's roar
Into the empty cabins, along with them, descend three cats and three dogs
Where rum awaits in old barrels for their longing

Ah, how differently we drink
Alcohol. It bites like a viper
When a tin cup of rum touches the lips
But it breathes spring when
Crystal with wine laughs
In the gleaming hall, as the ship begins its journey
So let us also drink and faithfully
Wait in our tavern
For when the Flying Dutchman strikes the shore

And on the deck, three girls drag behind them the train of longing
Though the black cats and three dogs sleep like stones
Sleep still eludes the three drunken girls
As the night stretches, a parasol of stars over the masts