You little box, held to me escaping So that your valves should not break Carried from house to house to ship from sail to train, So that my enemies might go on talking to me, Near my bed, to my pain...
Send me a leaf, but from a bush That grows at least one half hour Away from your house, then You must go and will be strong, and I Thank you for the pretty leaf.
On my wall hangs a Japanese carving, The mask of an evil demon, decorated with gold lacquer. Sympathetically I observe The swollen veins of the forehead, indicating What a strain it is to be evil.
After the uprising of the 17th June The Secretary of the Writers Union Had leaflets distributed in the Stalinallee Stating that the people Had forfeited the confidence of the government...
Indeed I live in the dark ages! A guileless word is an absurdity. A smooth forehead betokens A hard heart. He who laughs Has not yet heard The terrible tidings.
So there you sit. And how much blood was shed That you might sit there. Do such stories bore you? Well, don't forget that others sat before you who later sat on people. Keep your head!...
To the cities I came in a time of disorder That was ruled by hunger. I sheltered with the people in a time of uproar And then I joined in their rebellion....
The industrialist is having his aeroplane serviced. The priest is wondering what he said in his sermon eight weeks ago about tithes. The generals are putting on civvies and looking like bank clerks....