To Those Who Come After

This is one of my favorite poems by Bertolt Brecht:

I.

Truly I live in a bleak age.
The innocent word is foolish. A smooth brow
Is a sign of insensitivity. The laughing man
Has to receive
The dreadful news.

What times are these when
A conversation about trees is almost a crime
Because it contains a silence about so many atrocities.
That man there calmly crossing the streets,
Hasn't he stopped being reachable
For his friends in need?

True, I still earn my living
But, believe me, it's only through luck. Nothing
I do gives me the right to eat my fill.
Only by chance have I been spared. (If my luck gives out I'll be lost).

They tell me: eat and drink. Be happy that you can.
But how can I eat and drink when
I snatch what I eat from the hungry man, and
My glass of water deprives the man dying of thirst.
And yet I eat and drink

I wish I were also wise.
In the old books it says what it means to be wise:
Stay away from the strife of the world and spend
Your short time without fear,
Refrain from violence,
Return good for evil,
Don't fulfill your desires, but forget them instead,
and you'll be wise.
Everything that I can not do:
Truly I live in a bleak age.

II.

I came to the cities in a time of disorder
When hunger ran rampant.
I joined with the people in a time of rebellion
And revolted as they did.
So passed the time
Granted me on earth.

I ate my meals between battles.
I slept beside murderers.
Heedlessly I pursued love
And looked on nature without patience.
So passed the time
Granted me on earth.

In my time the streets led into quagmires.
Speech betrayed me to the butcher.
There was little I could do. But I hoped
The rulers sat less secure because of me.
So passed the time
Granted me on earth.

My strength was small. The goal
Lay far ahead.
It was clearly visible, even
If for me hard to reach.
So passed the time
Granted me on earth.


III.

You who will emerge out of this deluge
We drown in,
Remember
When you speak of our weaknesses
About the bleak age
You escaped.

We went forth, changing countries more often than shoes
Through the wars of the classes, despairing
When there was only injustice and no rebellion.

Yet because of this we know:
Even hatred of meanness
Distorts a man's features.
Even anger over injustice
Makes his voice hoarse. Ah, we
Who wanted to prepare the ground for kindness
Couldn't be kind to ourselves.

But you, if it ever happens
That men become the helpers of men,
Remember us
With a little indulgence.