(AT THE END OF 1914)
You know nothing of time,
You know only that, somewhere in the distance,
A war is being fought,
You whittle your wood into sword and shield and spear
And play your game blissfully in the garden,
Set up tents,
Carry white bandages marked with the red cross.
And if my wish for you has any power,
So war will remain
For you, always, only a dim legend,
So you will never stand in the field
And never die
And never rush out of a house crumbling in fire.
Nevertheless, you will be soldiers one day
And one day you will know
That the sweet breath of this life,
The precious possession of the heartbeat,
Is only a loan, and that whatever was lost
In the past, and the heir you long for,
And the farthest future,
Rolls through your blood,
And that for every hair on your head
Somebody endured one struggle, one pain, one death.
And you shall know that whatever is noble
In your soul is always a warrior,
Even though he bears no weapons,.
That every day a struggle and a destiny is waiting.
Do not forget this I
Think of the blood, the shambles, the ruin
On which your own future reposes,
And how, even more, upon death and sacrifice is builded
The tiniest happiness.
Then your life will flame out more
And one day gather even death
Into its arms.