Soldiers' Songs

1     It's good and beautiful to be a soldier for a year.     You live longer that way.    And one is certainly pleased     With each scrap of time that one snatches from death.     This poor brain, shredded by longing for the city,     Bloody from books, bodies, evenings,     Inconsolably sad and filled with every sin,     Three quarters destroyed already - can only,     Standing at attention and marching on parade,     Swinging arms and legs,     Rust gently in a corner of the skull.     Oh, the stink in a marching column.     Oh, speed-marching across a lovely land in the spring.     2     I must come one hour before the others,     Because I have shot badly.     I certainly won't be promoted.     And I must do extra drills as punishment,     Because, while the others, in accordance with orders,     Looked steadily at the caps of those in front of them,     As we were marching under the red sun     Across the shining fields,     I squinted carefully at the little pilot     Who was humming above me like a bee     In the glowing evening sky.     3     I know, I know; this life is healthy.     My rifle drill is hardly heard,     But I cut my hand badly.     Instead of the damned barracks yard     I could now be in a meadow.     In front of the assembled troops a man begins     To cry bitterly.     4     Sometimes I am afraid: a year is long,     Endlessly long.    And always legs swinging...     The whole lovely day spent molding bodies     And parade marching, and firing blanks.     To have to forget the world... that in the evening     One is still senseless, drinking beer, when one goes to sleep     One still feels the heavy helmet on his forehead -     And at night dreams of sergeants -     5     Even when Sundays and evenings come,     Completely empty and listless I move about,     I am completely glassy-eyed, play with dogs for fun,     Ah, or with little stones that I find,     Weary, without a thought, drag myself through the streets.     I often also stand around at my window,     At loose ends; should I just hang out at the local bar     With my dull comrades, kill my weary     Miserable hours in flickering movie houses     And, to pass the time of day     Look for willing girls: or should I merely     Go back and forth in my room.     I, who ran through the nights like a fool,     Shrieking to the sky, sought a thousand miracles.