Dedicated to my friend Markus, who was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis at the age of 17 and passed away at 36. He spent his final years in bed, gazing at the ceiling, unable to speak. Markus was probably my closest friend in high school. An outsider, the whipping boy in elementary school, and although left alone physically in high school, he was mocked for a long time. With the onset of puberty, he became a successful daredevil, admired by everyone for his incredible success rate in "picking up" girls. Every time, he believed he had found the love of his life. Unfortunately, the relationships never lasted long. A dreamer, a poet, a music freak. Instead of homework, he spent all his time recording music from the radio and cataloging it meticulously. At the same time, he built up an incredible record collection. The music listening evenings at his place were legendary. "Hey Markus, I heard a song yesterday, it started like this..." Like a shot: "That's St. Elmo's Fire by John Parr." Markus knew everything in this field. But his hobby cost him a school year. At the age of 17, neurological disorders began in his legs. Diagnosis: Multiple Sclerosis. He received his high school diploma already sitting down. He completed his apprenticeship as a wholesale and foreign trade clerk in a wheelchair but had to drop out because he became a total care patient during that time. What followed were 16 years of martyrdom, characterized first by rapid physical decay, and then by a cruel status quo. For the last years, he lay in bed, completely paralyzed and mute, staring rigidly at the ceiling. A machine constantly sucked mucus from his throat through a tracheotomy so that he wouldn't suffocate. His poet's heart had finally fallen silent. He had dictated his last poems to the civil service worker by blinking his eyes. You never heard him complain directly about his fate. The worst thing for him was that, due to his situation, he could not find a partner to whom he could give his great heart. ________________________________ [Verse 1] You sat in the classroom right next to me, a tin full of Latin, your game to decree. I won the round – you turned so cross, and I stood confused, as your anger would toss. Even back then there was quiet pain, a boy with a heart too big to contain. Misread, cast out, you searched in vain for someone to praise you, to ease your strain. [Chorus] Markus, my friend, I think of you, your poetry, music, your brave face too. Your road was hard, your heart so wide – you were there for me in your own time. I still hold your laughter, your poetry near, and your unwavering faith through every year. [Verse 2] Over lunch at your place, a familiar space, the clock kept on ticking, a merciless race. Your mother in despair – we had to go, but I kept on talking, to sports running slow. Then came the years of great emotion, you plunged headlong into love’s wide ocean. You loved so quickly, so deep, so true, your heart would break – yet it always grew. [Chorus] Markus, my friend, I think of you, your poetry, music, your brave face too. Your road was hard, your heart so wide – you were there for me in your own time. I still hold your laughter, your poetry near, and your unwavering faith through every year. [Bridge] The “tired feet” crept in so slow, and soon there was nowhere left to go. Yet you wrote, you spoke, you stayed right here, though your body was fading year by year. A blink of the eye – your final line, and still your great heart kept on shining fine. [Verse 3] I studied, I loved, I lived my days, while you lay beneath the ceiling’s gaze. When I came close to your bedside still, my joy felt like a kind of guilt to fill. Yet gratitude stirred in my soul as well, and awe for the years you had borne this hell. In faith in God you found your way, and never once had a word to say in blame. [Chorus] Markus, my friend, I think of you, your poetry, music, your brave face too. Your road was hard, your heart so wide – you were there for me in your own time. I still hold your laughter, your poetry near, and your unwavering faith through every year. [Outro] You were no hero – you were far more, a friend like an anchor in the ocean’s roar. Your life, your song – they stay with me here, my quiet companion: You, Markus, dear.
