I promised (myself) not to take to translating (again). How feeble
is a heart faced with injustice. From Brecth's Svendborg collection
(http://www.svendborg-bib.dk/biblio/Brecht/brecht_en.asp):
Poor time for poetry
I know: Only the happy is
loved. His voice is heard
gladly. His face pretty.
The yard's mutilated tree
indicates poor soil, but
those who point say rightfully:
It's a criple.
I dont' see
green boats and lusty sails at sea. I only see
fishermen with nets torn.
Why is my only concern that the
fortyyear-old maid has a hump?
The breasts of young girls are
warm as ever.
If my song rhymes it
feels like hubris.
I am torn between
joy over apple trees in bloom and
resentment over Mr Hitler's speeches.
But only the latter
drives me to my desk.
