by Durs Grünbein （Translated by Michael Hofmann）

    Everything continues much as before， especially the war，

    But also the daily dressing¹ and undressing. The left and right half

    Of the body remained conjoined， and there's still that chasm²

    Between reflection and self. And people kill and breed

    Not just out of desperation， but to pass the time.

    Poets， so they tell us， are awkward customers

    Not up to much. Even laughter has a keener， full-throated edge

    When they're not around. They're not very amusing.

    After hymning evil and violence in six long cycles，

    Lauttéamont the scorpion³ wheeled around.

    His magnum opus on good remained a pious⁴ sketch⁵.

    Baudelaire， prepared to saw through his throat with a blunt knife

    When the first broadsheet newspaper was printed，

    Thought， not for the last time， the end of poetry was nigh

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