Bertolt Brecht

My
Has told
That he needs me
That's whyI take good care of

After the uprising of the 17th
The Secretary of the Writers
Had leaflets distributed in the
Stating that the

Grace spare not and spare no
Passion nor
That a decent German
Flourish as do other lands

I confess this:
I have no hope
The blind talk about an escape
I see

Im Hofe steht ein Pflaumenbaum,
Der ist so klein, man glaubt es kaum
Er hat ein Gitter drum,
So tritt ihn keiner um

My young son asks me:
Must I learn mathematics
What is the use,
I feel like saying

After the wailing had already begun along the walls, their ruin certain, the Trojans fidgeted with bits of wood in the three-ply doors, itsy-bitsy pieces of wood, fussing with them
And began to get their nerve back and feel hopeful