Saturday, September 28, 2019


The river sings praises. . .

The river sings praises. Stars in the trees.

The smell of thyme and peppermint,

Our brows are freshened by a little breeze

We are the children, this is God's present.

The grass is soft: the woman without bitterness

The lovely willows make everything rejoice:

Pleasure's a certainty for those who will say yes.

Never again would you want to leave this place.

I am absolutely certain. . .

I am absolutely certain that tomorrow will be fine

That after rain comes sun

That my neighbour loves his daughter

My enemy is a bad man.

Also I have no doubt

That I'm doing better than almost everyone else.

Also I've never been heard to say

Things have got worse

The race is degenerating

Or that there are no women who are happy with just one man.

In all those matters

I am more generous, more trusting, more polite than the discontented

For all those matters

Seem to me of little consequence.

Yes, friends, now the grass is all eaten up. . .

Yes, friends, now the grass is all eaten up

And word is going round the continents that life

Is no longer worth living

The races are old, expect nothing more of them

The little planet is nimble and picked to the bone

It's all over and done with, for a while there was some chatter about it

Nothing more. We are

Merely a rare little generation of eyewitnesses

And the age will be called

The Age of Rubber


The Collected Poems of
Bertolt Brecht
translated by Tom Kuhn & David Constantine
Liveright 2018