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.

Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 2058 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Bertolt Brecht
Poem: Radio Poem

Poem of the Day on:
Feb 16 2008
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