Yesterday I still went powdered and addicted Into the many-colored sounding world. Today everything has long since drowned. Here is a thing. There is a thing. Something seems like this. Something seems otherwise. How easily someone blows out The whole flowering earth. The sky is cold and blue. Or the moon is yellow and flat. A forest has many individual trees. There's nothing more to cry about. There's nothing more to scream about. Where am I-- The Son Mother, don't hold me, Mother, your caress hurts me, See through my face, How I glow and wane. Give the last kiss. Let me go. Send a prayer after me. That I broke your life, Mother, forgive me. To Frida (Dedicated to L.L.) Walls separate us. Strange spider webs. But I often fly, gaunt in my sinking Hand wringing room, a bleeding chirping twit. 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 scrap of time that one snatches from death. This poor brain, shredded by longing for the city, Bloody 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 damned barracks yard I could now be in a meadow. In front of the assembled 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