Walter Benjamin in the Pyrenees Poem by Volker Braun

To stride calmly into the wall of fog.
His arms swing, not smoothly but regularly.
Exactly pursuing the paper above the abyss.
In his briefcase explosives, i.e.,
The Present, Die Gegenwart


Step by step, as chance
provides narrow foothold
in the material. My dear lady, not to go
would really be taking a risk.
Keeping track of time / after five lines, a rest.


Fields in which only madness proliferates.
To push forward with the axe in your hand
I have nothing to say. Only to show.
In the smallest, clearly defined segment.
Without looking right or left, onward
into the horror


By this method, I´ll manage.
The vineyard´s slope crumbles, slides
becomes horizontal, full of almost ripe
dark grapes. The briefcase the most important
thing! Body among the vines, panting, heart
struggling, the critical moment:
when the status quo threatens to last.
Dead bones below, vultures above.
Shorter steps, longer breaks.



My patience renders me invincible.
To set the sails of concepts. My dear,
may I help myself?? At the summit,
suddenly just as expected the force


of the view. Deep blue seas:
suddenly, I see two. Cinnobar coasts.
Below the cliffs, freedom.


…

Entry denied at Port Bou. But we, the homeless
carry - would you mind holding the case -
the deadly dose with us.


He probably thought he wouldn´t be able to manage that ascent one more
time. In the morning, the border officials found the corpse in my text.
Construction assumes destruction. The heavy leather briefcase, saved
from the hand of the Gestapo, unos papeles mas de contenido
desconocido, was lost. Too hasty, sir, that final stroke of the pen. The life
carries the work, if I may say so, up this almost vertical slope.
In every work, there is that spot where we feel a gust of cold,
like the dawn, coming

Translation: Anselm Hollo