Radio Poem

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.

by Bertolt Brecht

Comments (2)

nice story telling poem.i look forward to reading your poetry
Exile from Germany WAS painful for Brecht, who was never happy in the States. Despite the lies broadcast by the Nazis, the radio remained his treasured link to his beloved native language.