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User Rating:
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7.2
/10
(4 votes)
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You little box, held to me escaping
So that your valves should not break
Carried from house to house to ship from sail to train,
So that my enemies might go on talking to me,
Near my bed, to my pain
The last thing at night, the first thing in the morning,
Of their victories and of my cares,
Promise me not to go silent all of a sudden.
Bertolt Brecht
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Friday, January 03, 2003 |
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Read poems about / on: house, pain, night, poem
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Comments about this poem (Radio Poem
by
Bertolt Brecht
) |
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Andrew Hoellering (12/3/2009 11:50:00 PM)
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Exile from Germany WAS painful for Brecht, who was never happy in the States.
Despite the lies broadcast by the Nazis, the radio remained his treasured link to his beloved native language.
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