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11/22/2009 5:33:22 AM

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<i>Let others speak of her shame, 
I speak of my own. </i>

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!

Bertolt Brecht

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