Art Poem by Volker Braun

She dances on the graves, with grace
With her rogue memory. WE KNOW
WE CAN'T HOLD ON TO ANYTHING. She
Calls up the croaked, the forgotten, them
With their knives and demands. Love
Gone out, anger gone cold, the wasted times. What
Is the thought that we are mortal set against
THE GREAT IN VAIN? She dares to think it
Underground where everything lives. How
Is it possible that things the way they are
Are dancing?

Translation: David Constantine