Ilda Hopp/ translated by Luísa Costa Gomes
WHAT TIMES ARE THESE?
Was sind das für Zeiten, wo /Ein Gespräch über Bäume
fast ein Verbrechen ist.- „An die Nachgeborenen“
What times are these/ Where speaking of trees is almost a felony”
B.Brecht, “To those who will come after us)

It is almost a felony and it is almost forbidden
To declare that these are the times
Where poetry is most needed
To tell of destruction and war
Images are better perhaps.
But who will write about the innocent
Who stay behind already dead or mad
With the loss of someone right on the first day?
Who will look into birds´ nests
Burst into flames at the tenth day of war?
It is almost a felony and it is almost forbidden
In these somber days to think of nests and birds.
What else if not poetry to speak of the fear
Of men who ran and did not fight
Of those who hid from heroes
And stayed behind to starve like dogs
Shut up in a basement until silence came?
Of the faithfulness of dogs dying of hunger
And of love for these non-heroes
Who will speak if not forbidden poetry?
Who at the thirtieth day of war will write
A line about other small things
That one can only imagine: a tune
That someone whistles and suddenly stops.
A sonata played on the piano that is still standing.
Who will think of patting the cat that purrs
Happyly on one´s lap though on an empty stomach
Who will think of a drawing sketched almost in the dark;
Of a love poem dedicated to a lover.
At the five and fortieth day of war it will most
Certainly be forbidden and most surely a felony
To declare that laughter must still break out at times
In strong peels of laughter among those
Who expect the worst.