If only you were there.

I am so murdered.

Frida.

Lonely Watchman

City and beloved are far behind.

I am so betrayed and alone.

Slowly I move from one Leg to the other.

Around me strange doors screech.

I reach for dagger and gun.

Ah, if I were only at home With my mother.

Soldiers' Songs

1

It's good and beautiful to be a soldier for a year.

You live longer that way. And one is certainly pleased With each sc.r.a.p of time that one s.n.a.t.c.hes from death.

This poor brain, shredded by longing for the city, b.l.o.o.d.y from books, bodies, evenings, Inconsolably sad and filled with every sin, Three quarters destroyed already--can only, Standing at attention and marching on parade, Swinging arms and legs, Rust gently in a corner of the skull.

Oh, the stink in a marching column.

Oh, speed-marching across a lovely land in the spring.

2

I must come one hour before the others, Because I have shot badly.

I certainly won't be promoted.

And I must do extra drills as punishment, Because, while the others, in accordance with orders, Looked steadily at the caps of those in front of them, As we were marching under the red sun Across the shining fields, I squinted carefully at the little pilot Who was humming above me like a bee In the glowing evening sky.

3

I know, I know; this life is healthy.

My rifle drill is hardly heard, But I cut my hand badly.

Instead of the d.a.m.ned barracks yard I could now be in a meadow.

In front of the a.s.sembled troops a man begins To cry bitterly.

4

Sometimes I am afraid: a year is long, Endlessly long. And always legs swinging...

The whole lovely day spent molding bodies And parade marching, and firing blanks.

To have to forget the world... that in the evening One is still senseless, drinking beer, when one goes to sleep One still feels the heavy helmet on his forehead-- And at night dreams of sergeants--

5

Even when Sundays and evenings come, Completely empty and listless I move about, I am completely gla.s.sy-eyed, play with dogs for fun, Ah, or with little stones that I find, Weary, without a thought, drag myself through the streets.

I often also stand around at my window, At loose ends; should I just hang out at the local bar With my dull comrades, kill my weary Miserable hours in flickering movie houses And, to pa.s.s the time of day Look for willing girls: or should I merely Go back and forth in my room.

I, who ran through the nights like a fool, Shrieking to the sky, sought a thousand miracles.

Songs to Berlin

1

O you Berlin, you colorful stone, you beast.

You cast me with street lamps like briars.

Ah, when one flows in the night through your lamps After women, silky, plump.

A man gets dizzy from the eye-play.

The little moon-candy sweetens the sky.

When the days struck the steeples.

The head still glows, a red Chinese lantern.

2

Soon I must leave you, my Berlin.

Must again travel into the desolate cities.

Soon I shall sit on the distant hill tops.

In dense woods carve your name.

Farewell, Berlin, with your bold fires.

Farewell, your streets full of adventures.

Who has known as much as I have of your pain.

Saloons, you, I press you to my breast.

3

In meadows and in pure winds peacefully Cheerful people may glide along gleefully.

We, however, rotten and poisoned long ago, Would deceive ourselves with this stepping into heaven In strange cities I move about without direction.

The strange days are hollow and like chalk.

You, my Berlin, you opium rush, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Only he who knows longing knows what I suffer.

Monday in the courtyard of the barracks

The heat sticks closely to the gun and to the hand.