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More poems by Bertolt BrechtBertolt Brecht | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Bertolt BrechtBooks by Bertolt Brecht

O Germany, Pale Mother!

Bertolt Brecht

Let others speak of her shame,
I speak of my own.

O Germany, pale mother!
How soiled you are
As you sit among the peoples.
You flaunt yourself
Among the besmirched.

The poorest of your sons
Lies struck down.
When his hunger was great.
Your other sons
Raised their hands against him.
This is notorious.

With their hands thus raised,
Raised against their brother,
They march insolently around you
And laugh in your face.
This is well known.

In your house
Lies are roared aloud.
But the truth
Must be silent.
Is it so?

Why do the oppressors praise you everywhere,
The oppressed accuse you?
The plundered
Point to you with their fingers, but
The plunderer praises the system
That was invented in your house!

Whereupon everyone sees you
Hiding the hem of your mantle which is bloody
With the blood
Of your best sons.

Hearing the harangues which echo from your house,
men laugh.
But whoever sees you reaches for a knife
As at the approach of a robber.

O Germany, pale mother!
How have your sons arrayed you
That you sit among the peoples
A thing of scorn and fear!

Added: 31 Aug 2001 | Last Read: 23 Apr 2018 1:45 PM | Viewed: 7054 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/653/ | Viewed on 23 April 2018.
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