Once upon a time there lived Till Lindemann – not just the voice of fire, not just the leader of steel reefs, but the king of a new Germany.

He sat in a palace of black basalt, where the walls trembled with his every word, where wine flowed like mercury, and the nights smelled of smoke and honey. But his heart was empty. He had no queen. No one whose gaze could stop the storm, whose voice could drown out even the roar of Rammstein.

So the king set out on a journey – not on a horse, but on an old motorcycle with a pipe, where a volume of Baudelaire and half a bottle of absinthe lay.

He traveled around the country: through villages, through cities, among clouds and ruins, looking for the one in whom he would find not only love, but also rage, passion, wildness, tenderness – everything that a song is alive with. One was too quiet. Another – too lush. The third – was afraid of his gaze. And then in one village, where the rain had not stopped for three years, he met a girl.

You were sitting on the roof, singing something ancient, forgotten, and drinking the rain straight from the sky. Your eyes were like amber in the fire, and your laughter was like broken glass at night.

-What is your name? -asked Till. -Why would someone who can sing without words need a name? -you answered, not taking your eyes off him.

And then he realized that he was not looking for a queen, but for someone who would not be afraid of his fire. Someone who would say: “A palace? Pfft, let’s make a new one from the ashes.”