#svendborg gedichte

[daymarkist]

Hope in the Night: A Web

Gustav Klimt; "Hope II" (1903) // Bertolt Brecht; "Motto" // Paramore; "Last Hope" // Arlo Parks — "Hope" Music Video (dir. Molly Burdett) // Voltaire; Candide // Vincent van Gogh; Almond Blossom (1890) // Hesoid; Works and Days (96-9)

[howieabel]

I Truly, I live in dark times! An artless word is foolish. A smooth forehead Points to insensitivity. He who laughs Has not yet received The terrible news.

What times are these, in which A conversation about trees is almost a crime For in doing so we maintain our silence about so much wrongdoing! And he who walks quietly across the street, Passes out of the reach of his friends Who are in danger?

It is true: I work for a living But, believe me, that is a coincidence. Nothing That I do gives me the right to eat my fill. By chance I have been spared. (If my luck does not hold, I am lost.)

They tell me: eat and drink. Be glad to be among the haves! But how can I eat and drink When I take what I eat from the starving And those who thirst do not have my glass of water? And yet I eat and drink.

I would happily be wise. The old books teach us what wisdom is: To retreat from the strife of the world To live out the brief time that is your lot Without fear To make your way without violence To repay evil with good — The wise do not seek to satisfy their desires, But to forget them. But I cannot heed this: Truly I live in dark times!

II

I came into the cities in a time of disorder As hunger reigned. I came among men in a time of turmoil And I rose up with them. And so passed The time given to me on earth.

I ate my food between slaughters. I laid down to sleep among murderers. I tended to love with abandon. I looked upon nature with impatience. And so passed The time given to me on earth.

In my time streets led into a swamp. My language betrayed me to the slaughterer. There was little I could do. But without me The rulers sat more securely, or so I hoped. And so passed The time given to me on earth.

The powers were so limited. The goal Lay far in the distance It could clearly be seen although even I Could hardly hope to reach it. And so passed The time given to me on earth.

III

You, who shall resurface following the flood In which we have perished, Contemplate — When you speak of our weaknesses, Also the dark time That you have escaped.

For we went forth, changing our country more frequently than our shoes Through the class warfare, despairing That there was only injustice and no outrage.

And yet we knew: Even the hatred of squalor Distorts one’s features. Even anger against injustice Makes the voice grow hoarse. We Who wished to lay the foundation for gentleness Could not ourselves be gentle.

But you, when at last the time comes That man can aid his fellow man, Should think upon us With leniency.

—Bertolt Brecht, An die Nachgeborenen first published in Svendborger Gedichte (1939) in: Gesammelte Werke, vol. 4, pp. 722-25 (1967)(S.H. transl.)

[kabbalicgay]

In the dark times Will there also be singing? Yes, there will also be singing About the dark times.

— Bertolt Brecht, motto from Svendborger Gedichte, or “Svendborg Poems” (1939)

[invisiblemotor]

‘To Those Who Follow in Our Wake’

I

Truly, I live in dark times!

An artless word is foolish. A smooth forehead

Points to insensitivity. He who laughs

Has not yet received

The terrible news.

What times are these, in which

A conversation about trees is almost a crime

For in doing so we maintain our silence about so much wrongdoing!

And he who walks quietly across the street,

Passes out of the reach of his friends

Who are in danger?

It is true: I work for a living

But, believe me, that is a coincidence. Nothing

That I do gives me the right to eat my fill.

By chance I have been spared. (If my luck does not hold,

I am lost.)

They tell me: eat and drink. Be glad to be among the haves!

But how can I eat and drink

When I take what I eat from the starving

And those who thirst do not have my glass of water?

And yet I eat and drink.

I would happily be wise.

The old books teach us what wisdom is:

To retreat from the strife of the world

To live out the brief time that is your lot

Without fear

To make your way without violence

To repay evil with good —

The wise do not seek to satisfy their desires,

But to forget them.

But I cannot heed this:

Truly I live in dark times!

II

I came into the cities in a time of disorder

As hunger reigned.

I came among men in a time of turmoil

And I rose up with them.

And so passed

The time given to me on earth.

I ate my food between slaughters.

I laid down to sleep among murderers.

I tended to love with abandon.

I looked upon nature with impatience.

And so passed

The time given to me on earth.

In my time streets led into a swamp.

My language betrayed me to the slaughterer.

There was little I could do. But without me

The rulers sat more securely, or so I hoped.

And so passed

The time given to me on earth.

The powers were so limited. The goal

Lay far in the distance

It could clearly be seen although even I

Could hardly hope to reach it.

And so passed

The time given to me on earth.

III

You, who shall resurface following the flood

In which we have perished,

Contemplate —

When you speak of our weaknesses,

Also the dark time

That you have escaped.

For we went forth, changing our country more frequently than our shoes

Through the class warfare, despairing

That there was only injustice and no outrage.

And yet we knew:

Even the hatred of squalor

Distorts one’s features.

Even anger against injustice

Makes the voice grow hoarse. We

Who wished to lay the foundation for gentleness

Could not ourselves be gentle.

But you, when at last the time comes

That man can aid his fellow man,

Should think upon us

With leniency.

—Bertolt Brecht, An die Nachgeborenen first published in Svendborger Gedichte (1939) in: Gesammelte Werke, vol. 4, pp. 722-25 (1967)(S.H. transl.)

[revista-crisopeya]

¿Cuánto tiempo llevamos contando la historia de los vencedores? Esa historia que loa los callos en las nalgas de Bolívar ―de tanto cabalgar y liberar naciones― y no los callos en los pies de las mujeres que marcharon junto al Libertador. Una historia en la que caben pocos y se construye sobre la intervención de muchos. Pero uno a veces se hace preguntas y las formula ante un libro: se formulan porque se lee. Y leer es peligroso.

«Preguntas de un obrero que lee»,

por Bertolt Brecht (1935).

¿Quién construyó Tebas, la de las siete puertas? En los libros se mencionan los nombres de los reyes. ¿Acaso los reyes acarrearon las piedras? Y Babilonia, tantas veces destruida, ¿quién la construyó otras tantas?

¿En qué casas de Lima, la resplandeciente de oro, vivían los albañiles? ¿A dónde fueron sus constructores la noche que terminaron la Muralla China? Roma la magna está llena de arcos de triunfo. ¿Quién los construyó? ¿A quiénes vencieron los Césares? Bizancio, tan loada, ¿acaso sólo tenía palacios para sus habitantes? Hasta en la legendaria Atlántida, la noche que fue devorada por el mar, los que se ahogaban clamaban llamando a sus esclavos. El joven Alejandro conquistó la India. ¿Él solo? César venció a los galos; ¿no lo acompañaba siquiera un cocinero? Felipe de España lloró cuando se hundió su flota, ¿nadie más lloraría? Federico Segundo venció en la Guerra de los Siete Años, ¿quién más venció? Cada página una victoria ¿quién guisó el banquete del triunfo? Cada década un gran personaje. ¿Quién pagaba los gastos? A tantas historias, tantas preguntas.

Trad. anónima del original alemán «Fragen eines lesenden Arbeiters», de su colección «Svendborger Gedichte».

Desde finales de los sesenta una nueva corriente histórica ha puesto en entredicho la heredada de los historiadores decimonónicos, «la Nouvelle Histoire». En esta Nueva Historia ―o Historia Social o Antropológica― la pregunta no es por los grandes ni por las superficies; es por todos: por los pequeños, los anónimos, los no canónicos, y es de profundidades. Se abandona la idea de una historia construida desde el vencedor y desde quien puede ser recordado; el estudio de las mentalidades, de sociedades completas, de vencidos, es ahora materia de estudio y de recordación. Es una búsqueda por la (re)elaboración del constructo social. Sin embargo, aún no nos preguntamos del todo por quienes están más allá del hecho material. ¿Quién cargó los materiales? ¿Quiénes se treparon en andamios? ¿Quiénes, como Bolívar, aún tienen callos en las nalgas? ¿A cuántos olvidamos? «A tantas historias, tantas preguntas», definitivamente.

📸 @felipejaramillogiraldo​ 

[thelonguepuree]

To Those Born Later

I. Truly I live in dark times! Frank speech is naïve. A smooth forehead Suggests insensitivity. The man who laughs Has simply not yet heard The terrible news. What kind of times are these, when To talk about trees is almost a crime Because it implies silence about so many horrors? When the man over there calmly crossing the street Is already perhaps beyond the reach of his friends Who are in need? It’s true that I still earn my daily bread But, believe me, that’s only an accident. Nothing I do gives me the right to eat my fill. By chance I've been spared. (If my luck breaks, I'm lost.) They say to me: Eat and drink! Be glad you have it! But how can I eat and drink if I snatch what I eat From the starving And my glass of water belongs to someone dying of thirst? And yet I eat and drink. I would also like to be wise. In the old books it says what wisdom is: To shun the strife of the world and to live out Your brief time without fear Also to get along without violence To return good for evil Not to fulfill your desires but to forget them Is accounted wise. All this I cannot do. Truly, I live in dark times. II. I came to the cities in a time of disorder When hunger reigned. I came among men in a time of revolt And I rebelled with them. So passed my time Given me to on earth. I ate my food between battles I lay down to sleep among murderers I practiced love carelessly And I had little patience for nature’s beauty. So passed my time Given to me on earth. All roads led into the mire in my time. My tongue betrayed me to the butchers. There was little I could do. But those is power Sat safer without me: that was my hope. So passed my time Given to me on earth. Our forces were slight. Our goal Lay far in the distance Clearly visible, though I myself Was unlikely to reach it. So passed my time Given to me on earth. III. You who will emerge from the flood In which we have gone under Bring to mind When you speak of our failings Bring to mind also the dark times That you have escaped. Changing countries more often than our shoes, We went through the class wars, despairing When there was only injustice, no outrage. And yet we realized: Hatred, even of meanness Contorts the features. Anger, even against injustice Makes the voice hoarse. O, We who wanted to prepare the ground for friendship Could not ourselves be friendly. But you, when the time comes at last When man is helper to man Think of us With forbearance. — Bertolt Brecht, An die Nachgeborenen, first published in Svendborger Gedichte (1939) Not sure who did the translation…

[moon-yean]

In den finsteren Zeiten Wird da auch gesungen werden? Da wird auch gesungen werden. Von den finsteren Zeiten.

Bertold Brecht

Motto der Svendborger Gedichte (1939) | trans. John Willett in Poems, 1913-1956, p. 320 [x].

[mrfoxtalbot]

"An die Nachgeborenen" · Bertolt Brecht

“An die Nachgeborenen” · Bertolt Brecht

—Bertolt Brecht, An die Nachgeborenen first published in Svendborger Gedichte (1939)Source of the English translation Wirklich, ich lebe in finsteren Zeiten!Das arglose Wort ist töricht. Eine glatte StirnDeutet auf Unempfindlichkeit hin. Der LachendeHat die furchtbare NachrichtNur noch nicht empfangen. Was sind das für Zeiten, woEin Gespräch über Bäume fast ein Verbrechen ist.Weil es ein…

[mavie100moi]

      Vraiment, je vis en de sombres temps !...

Vraiment, je vis en de sombres temps ! Un langage sans malice est signe De sottise, un front lisse D’insensibilité. Celui qui rit N’a pas encore reçu la terrible nouvelle.

Que sont donc ces temps, où Parler des arbres est presque un crime Puisque c’est faire silence sur tant de forfaits ! Celui qui là-bas traverse tranquillement la rue N’est-il donc plus accessible à ses amis Qui sont dans la détresse ?

C’est vrai : je gagne encore de quoi vivre. Mais croyez-moi : c’est pur hasard. Manger à ma faim, Rien de ce que je fais ne m’en donne le droit. Par hasard je suis épargné. (Que ma chance me quitte et je suis perdu.)

On me dit : mange, toi, et bois ! Sois heureux d’avoir ce que tu as ! Mais comment puis-je manger et boire, alors Que j’enlève ce que je mange à l’affamé, Que mon verre d’eau manque à celui qui meurt de soif ? Et pourtant je mange et je bois.

J’aimerais aussi être un sage. Dans les livres anciens il est dit ce qu’est la sagesse : Se tenir à l’écart des querelles du monde Et sans crainte passer son peu de temps sur terre. Aller son chemin sans violence Rendre le bien pour le mal Ne pas satisfaire ses désirs mais les oublier Est aussi tenu pour sage. Tout cela m’est impossible : Vraiment, je vis en de sombres temps !

II

Je vins dans les villes au temps du désordre Quand la famine y régnait. Je vins parmi les hommes au temps de l’émeute Et je m’insurgeai avec eux. Ainsi se passa le temps Qui me fut donné sur terre.

Mon pain, je le mangeais entre les batailles, Pour dormir je m’étendais parmi les assassins. L’amour, je m’y adonnais sans plus d’égards Et devant la nature j’étais sans indulgence. Ainsi se passa le temps Qui me fut donné sur terre.

De mon temps, les rues menaient au marécage. Le langage me dénonçait au bourreau. Je n’avais que peu de pouvoir. Mais celui des maîtres Était sans moi plus assuré, du moins je l’espérais. Ainsi se passa le temps Qui me fut donné sur terre.

Les forces étaient limitées. Le but Restait dans le lointain. Nettement visible, bien que pour moi Presque hors d’atteinte. Ainsi se passa le temps Qui me fut donné sur terre.

III

Vous, qui émergerez du flot Où nous avons sombré Pensez Quand vous parlez de nos faiblesses Au sombre temps aussi Dont vous êtes saufs.

Nous allions, changeant de pays plus souvent que de souliers, A travers les guerres de classes, désespérés Là où il n’y avait qu’injustice et pas de révolte.

Nous le savons : La haine contre la bassesse, elle aussi Tord les traits. La colère contre l’injustice Rend rauque la voix. Hélas, nous Qui voulions préparer le terrain à l’amitié Nous ne pouvions être nous-mêmes amicaux.

Mais vous, quand le temps sera venu Où l’homme aide l’homme, Pensez à nous Avec indulgence.

Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956), À ceux qui naîtront après nous ( An die Nachgeborenen) in Svendborger Gedichte, 1934/1938

photographie attribuée à Félix Thiollier (1842-1914)

[aeide-thea]

—Bertolt Brecht, epigraph to Section II of the Svendborg Poems [Svendborger Gedichte]

In your honest opinion, what does it mean to be human?

[her-moth]

Bertolt Brecht - ‘To Those Who Follow in Our Wake’

I Truly, I live in dark times! An artless word is foolish. A smooth forehead Points to insensitivity. He who laughs Has not yet received The terrible news.

What times are these, in which A conversation about trees is almost a crime For in doing so we maintain our silence about so much wrongdoing! And he who walks quietly across the street, Passes out of the reach of his friends Who are in danger?

It is true: I work for a living But, believe me, that is a coincidence. Nothing That I do gives me the right to eat my fill. By chance I have been spared. (If my luck does not hold, I am lost.)

They tell me: eat and drink. Be glad to be among the haves! But how can I eat and drink When I take what I eat from the starving And those who thirst do not have my glass of water? And yet I eat and drink.

I would happily be wise. The old books teach us what wisdom is: To retreat from the strife of the world To live out the brief time that is your lot Without fear To make your way without violence To repay evil with good — The wise do not seek to satisfy their desires, But to forget them. But I cannot heed this: Truly I live in dark times!

II

I came into the cities in a time of disorder As hunger reigned. I came among men in a time of turmoil And I rose up with them. And so passed The time given to me on earth.

I ate my food between slaughters. I laid down to sleep among murderers. I tended to love with abandon. I looked upon nature with impatience. And so passed The time given to me on earth.

In my time streets led into a swamp. My language betrayed me to the slaughterer. There was little I could do. But without me The rulers sat more securely, or so I hoped. And so passed The time given to me on earth.

The powers were so limited. The goal Lay far in the distance It could clearly be seen although even I Could hardly hope to reach it. And so passed The time given to me on earth.

III

You, who shall resurface following the flood In which we have perished, Contemplate — When you speak of our weaknesses, Also the dark time That you have escaped.

For we went forth, changing our country more frequently than our shoes Through the class warfare, despairing That there was only injustice and no outrage.

And yet we knew: Even the hatred of squalor Distorts one’s features. Even anger against injustice Makes the voice grow hoarse. We Who wished to lay the foundation for gentleness Could not ourselves be gentle.

But you, when at last the time comes That man can aid his fellow man, Should think upon us With leniency.

—Bertolt Brecht, An die Nachgeborenen first published in Svendborger Gedichte (1939) in: Gesammelte Werke, vol. 4, pp. 722-25 (1967)(S.H. transl.)

[erermela]

I

Truly, I live in dark times!

An artless word is foolish. A smooth forehead

Points to insensitivity. He who laughs

Has not yet received

The terrible news.

What times are these, in which

A conversation about trees is almost a crime

For in doing so we maintain our silence about so much wrongdoing!

And he who walks quietly across the street,

Passes out of the reach of his friends

Who are in danger?

It is true: I work for a living

But, believe me, that is a coincidence. Nothing

That I do gives me the right to eat my fill.

By chance I have been spared. (If my luck does not hold,

I am lost.)

They tell me: eat and drink. Be glad to be among the haves!

But how can I eat and drink

When I take what I eat from the starving

And those who thirst do not have my glass of water?

And yet I eat and drink.

I would happily be wise.

The old books teach us what wisdom is:

To retreat from the strife of the world

To live out the brief time that is your lot

Without fear

To make your way without violence

To repay evil with good –

The wise do not seek to satisfy their desires,

But to forget them.

But I cannot heed this:

Truly I live in dark times!

II

I came into the cities in a time of disorder

As hunger reigned.

I came among men in a time of turmoil

And I rose up with them.

And so passed

The time given to me on earth.

I ate my food between slaughters.

I laid down to sleep among murderers.

I tended to love with abandon.

I looked upon nature with impatience.

And so passed

The time given to me on earth.

In my time streets led into a swamp.

My language betrayed me to the slaughterer.

There was little I could do. But without me

The rulers sat more securely, or so I hoped.

And so passed

The time given to me on earth.

The powers were so limited. The goal

Lay far in the distance

It could clearly be seen although even I

Could hardly hope to reach it.

And so passed

The time given to me on earth.

III

You, who shall resurface following the flood

In which we have perished,

Contemplate –

When you speak of our weaknesses,

Also the dark time

That you have escaped.

For we went forth, changing our country more frequently than our shoes

Through the class warfare, despairing

That there was only injustice and no outrage.

And yet we knew:

Even the hatred of squalor

Distorts one’s features.

Even anger against injustice

Makes the voice grow hoarse. We

Who wished to lay the foundation for gentleness

Could not ourselves be gentle.

But you, when at last the time comes

That man can aid his fellow man,

Should think upon us

With leniency.

–Bertolt Brecht, An die Nachgeborenen first published in Svendborger Gedichte (1939)

[comradebrecht]

ABOUT BRECHT

Egune Bertolt Fredrich Brecht was born Febuary 10th 1898 in Augsburg, Germany. He was a playwright, a poet and a theatrical practitioner who reformed how theatre was perceived with a political intention. He removed the conventions of the illusion of theatre (such as the fourth wall) and pushed for theatre to be used as a means of social and ideological forums for leftist ideals.  He is not only revered for his theatre, he is also looked to as a staple in terms of social and political philosophy. The man originally studied medicine, he studied in Munich and served in an Army hospital from 1918. He wrote a few poems and plays, and moved away from his birthplace of Bavaria after his first professional production, Edward II, in 1924. He had developed a very anti-bourgeois attitude which criticised how much civilisation had fallen at the end of WW1. His friends were largley a part of a Dadaist group which focused on tearing down the ideas of bourgeois art.

He was taught Marxism by a man called Karl Korsch, an expelled member of the German communist party, and became a Marxist- a subset of Communism, as well as Socialism. Many people have described Brecht as strongly a socialist, which isn’t exactly incorrect. However, it is as if they are trying to establish a large wedge between his ideas about Communism vs Capitalism. Socialism is the overarching “genre” if you will of this political belief, but usually people most associate “socialism” as what is actually “social democracy”, or as I prefer to call it, “Capitalism Lite”. When in fact, they usually are both the same subset of political views against Capitalism.

Not all Socialists are Communists, yet Brecht evidently was; He was a classical Marxist, but often found himself in conflict with his political ideals (such as at one point taking a large disliking to Bolshevism, a form of very far-left Marxism formed by Lenin and Bogdanov, saying he would rather have a new car than socialism). Being taught by Korsche and several others involved in Marxism at the time meant that his views shifted, which would make him primarily a Communist through and through, though it’s not unlikley his views tended to shift.

To be a Communist means that you disagree with the idea of a bourgeois state and the idea of private property being owned by Capitalists instead of the people, as well as wanting to disestablish and destroy the class systems that have taken root in society, as all men are equal and nobody deserves their worth to be based on their ability to create money. In Communism, people are free, and wealth is distributed to all in an equal manner. Throughout history, the practice has not always been executed in the right manner, however it is the idea that brings people together to think against the Capitalist society that we are in.

In 1922, he married Viennese opera singer, Marianne Zoff, who he had a daughter with; her name was Hanne Hiob, born in March 1924. She later became a famous German actress. However, during this time, their marriage started to break down. They later divorced in 1927. He became involved with Elizabeth Haupttmann, as well as Helene Weigel; she was a Jewish woman and a member of the communist party. He and Weigel had a son in 1924, and he later married Weigel in 1930. Weigel was also an avid actress, but could not pursue much of her craft due to Adolf Hitler’s dictatorship in Germany, not even while staying in the US.

From 1924-1933 in Berlin, he worked and produced several plays where he developed the idea of “Lehr-stücke”, works that were intended to TEACH and not to just be watched; he also developed the theory of “epic theatre”, the structure and theory behind his way of conveying ideas through theatre as well as deconstructing the standards to orthodox theatre practices. This involved the use of Verfremdungseffekt, also known as “The V-effect”, which is translated to “the distancing/alienation effect”, or "the estrangement device”. This was a term to describe the emotional distancing the actors had from the audience in terms of characters and plot; it was used in epic theatre to consistently and constantly remind the audience that they were watching a PLAY, that this was not REAL. The stage to Brecht was more of a story book or a classroom which he could teach from, rather than a nice trip out to see a show. Brecht wanted to reach something in people, to make them hyper aware of their surroundings and their own situations, and by stripping back the layers of what people find relatable in people, he managed to throw off the rhythm by involving the audience in a different way. The goal was to get people to THINK, instead of blindly enjoy.

In 1933, before the impact of the second world war started to take place, he went into exile in Scandinavia, had his book and writing burnt, and was cast out from German theatre. Despite this, between 1937 and 1941 he wrote many of his greatest plays and other projects, such as “Svendborger Gedichte” (1939) and beginning the novel of “The Business Affairs of Mr. Julius Caesar”.  In 1941-1947 he moved to the United States to do some film work in Hollywood.

Brecht continued on to write more plays in his exile years, including “The Caucasian Chalk Circle (Der Kaukasische Kreidekreis)” in 1948/49.

Brecht left the US in 1947 and spent a year in Zurich, working mainly on “Antigone-Modell”, and it was within these years where the Marxist ideals and further push for the use of epic theatre to broaden. He wanted audiences to view his plays as a poets art and watch with critical detachment. What the audience views is past events, that they are simply viewing a detailed account of human behaviour in certain situations to make them think about the plays in a scientific and political way, that theatre is just that, theatre, and not the actual world itself. It can be a reflection of the world, but never can it be a real world situation.

One of Brecht’s most famous quotes is:

“Art is not a mirror held up to reality but a hammer with which to shape it.”

In 1949 he went to Berlin to stage “Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder”,  with his wife Helene Weigel in the Soviet Sector, which led to his own theatre group being formed, the Berliner Ensemble. He permanently returned to Berlin. He was often boycotted due to his Communist opinions, theories and unorthodox theatre practices; however, he had much luck in Paris Théâtre des Nations in 1955. He also received a Stalin Peace Prize in Moscow the same year.

Unfortunately, in August 1956, Brecht died of a heart attack at the age of 58. He is buried in Dorotheenstädtischer cemetery, alongside his wife who kept his theatre group running until her death in 1971. Their shared residency overlooks both of their graves.

[preeti-kaagaz]

I Truly, I live in dark times! An artless word is foolish. A smooth forehead Points to insensitivity. He who laughs Has not yet received The terrible news. What times are these, in which A conversation about trees is almost a crime For in doing so we maintain our silence about so much wrongdoing! And he who walks quietly across the street, Passes out of the reach of his friends Who are in danger? It is true: I work for a living But, believe me, that is a coincidence. Nothing That I do gives me the right to eat my fill. By chance I have been spared. (If my luck does not hold, I am lost.) They tell me: eat and drink. Be glad to be among the haves! But how can I eat and drink When I take what I eat from the starving And those who thirst do not have my glass of water? And yet I eat and drink. I would happily be wise. The old books teach us what wisdom is: To retreat from the strife of the world To live out the brief time that is your lot Without fear To make your way without violence To repay evil with good — The wise do not seek to satisfy their desires, But to forget them. But I cannot heed this: Truly I live in dark times! II I came into the cities in a time of disorder As hunger reigned. I came among men in a time of turmoil And I rose up with them. And so passed The time given to me on earth. I ate my food between slaughters. I laid down to sleep among murderers. I tended to love with abandon. I looked upon nature with impatience. And so passed The time given to me on earth. In my time streets led into a swamp. My language betrayed me to the slaughterer. There was little I could do. But without me The rulers sat more securely, or so I hoped. And so passed The time given to me on earth. The powers were so limited. The goal Lay far in the distance It could clearly be seen although even I Could hardly hope to reach it. And so passed The time given to me on earth. III You, who shall resurface following the flood In which we have perished, Contemplate — When you speak of our weaknesses, Also the dark time That you have escaped. For we went forth, changing our country more frequently than our shoes Through the class warfare, despairing That there was only injustice and no outrage. And yet we knew: Even the hatred of squalor Distorts one’s features. Even anger against injustice Makes the voice grow hoarse. We Who wished to lay the foundation for gentleness Could not ourselves be gentle. But you, when at last the time comes That man can aid his fellow man, Should think upon us With leniency.

Bertolt Brecht, An die Nachgeborenen first published in Svendborger Gedichte (1939) in: Gesammelte Werke, vol. 4, pp. 722-25 (1967)(S.H. transl.)