Poem
Volker Braun
Property
I´m still here, though my country´s gone West.PEACE TO THE PALACES AND DEVIL TAKE THE REST.
I gave it the elbow and heave-ho once myself.
Now it´s giving away its negligible charms itself.
Winter is followed by a summer of guzzling.
But I remain, worrying at the root of all evil.
And my poem becomes increasingly puzzling,
To wit: what I never had is being filched.
I shall always mourn what never happened to me in
person.
Hope lay across the path like a trap.
And that´s my junk you´ve got your paws on.
Will it ever again be given me
To say mine and thereby mean the collective me.
Das Eigentum
Das Eigentum
Da bin ich noch: mein Land geht in den Westen.KRIEG DEN HÜTTEN FRIEDE DEN PALÄSTEN.
Ich selber habe ihm den Tritt versetzt.
Es wirft sich weg und seine magre Zierde.
Dem Winter folgt der Sommer der Begierde.
Und ich kann bleiben wo der Pfeffer wächst.
Und unverständlich wird mein ganzer Text
Was ich niemals besaß wird mir entrissen.
Was ich nicht lebte, werd ich ewig missen.
Die Hoffnung lag im Weg wie eine Falle.
Mein Eigentum, jetzt habt ihrs auf der Kralle.
Wann sag ich wieder mein und meine alle.
From: Lustgarten
Publisher: Suhrkamp Verlag, Preußen
Publisher: Suhrkamp Verlag, Preußen
Poems
Poems of Volker Braun
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Property
I´m still here, though my country´s gone West.PEACE TO THE PALACES AND DEVIL TAKE THE REST.
I gave it the elbow and heave-ho once myself.
Now it´s giving away its negligible charms itself.
Winter is followed by a summer of guzzling.
But I remain, worrying at the root of all evil.
And my poem becomes increasingly puzzling,
To wit: what I never had is being filched.
I shall always mourn what never happened to me in
person.
Hope lay across the path like a trap.
And that´s my junk you´ve got your paws on.
Will it ever again be given me
To say mine and thereby mean the collective me.
From: Lustgarten
Property
I´m still here, though my country´s gone West.PEACE TO THE PALACES AND DEVIL TAKE THE REST.
I gave it the elbow and heave-ho once myself.
Now it´s giving away its negligible charms itself.
Winter is followed by a summer of guzzling.
But I remain, worrying at the root of all evil.
And my poem becomes increasingly puzzling,
To wit: what I never had is being filched.
I shall always mourn what never happened to me in
person.
Hope lay across the path like a trap.
And that´s my junk you´ve got your paws on.
Will it ever again be given me
To say mine and thereby mean the collective me.
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