What does he think? What is he thinking, that man who trembles between a rifle and a wall? --- Was denkt er? Was denkt er, der Mann, der zwischen einem Gewehr und einer Mauer zittert? --- Que pense-t-il? Qu'est-ce qu'il pense, cet homme qui tremble entre un fusil et un mur? ---¿Qué piensa él? ¿Qué está pensando, ese hombre que tiembla entre un rifle y una pared?

The Promise...

A while ago
I promised you many love poems
and---now you see---I couldn't write them.
You were sitting next to me
and it is impossible to write about what is just there.
What one has is always poetry.
But a few clear things
have begun to bring us together---
we have shared the same solitude
in separate rooms,
you there and I here,
without knowing anything of each other,
trying,
crying,
each in place,
peace,
anger,
fear,
to remember the looks on our faces,
which all of a sudden join those
we thought we had lost,
erased
from our early years.
I remembered the knocks on the door
and your frightened voice,
and you,
my eyes still filled with sleep.
For a long time
you used to ask me just what History was.
I couldn't answer,
I gave vague definitions.
I never dared give you a real answer.
It is so bad...
People are bad...
War is bad...