That photo of Bertold Brecht Poem by Flavio Santi

That photo of Bertold Brecht
cigar in his mouth, leather jacket:
what does it say? where does it go?
that the proletariat is dead?
that we are incapable of revolutions?
I'll never know how it ended
that dream where I'm a
partisan but I'm afraid
I pick up the rifle with a sense of death
but run away trembling.
But if we are afraid of death in our dreams,
this Brecht seems to be whispering,
from the yellow paper of the print,
murderous life how shall I
call you beautiful?