Night. A streetlight, a drugstore,
A street. A vacuous shadowy light.
Live five, ten, fifteen years more --
Nothing will change.  There's no way out.

Die, you only start all over
And it's all the same as before:
Night, ice in the dark gutter,
The street, the street light, the store.

Every Day

by Ingeborg Bachmann

War is no longer declared,

merely perpetuated. The outrageous

has become commonplace. The hero

stays far from battle. The weakling

is transferred to the firing zone.

Patience is the uniform of the day,

the order of merit a wretched star

of hope stuck to the heart.

It will be awarded

when the action has ceased,

when the drumfire dies down,

when the enemy has receded from view

and the shadow of eternal amazement 

enshrouds the sky.

It will be awarded 

for deserting the flags,

for bravery in the face of a friend,

for the betrayal of ignoble secrets

and the disregard of every command.