Trümmerfrau by Max Lichnit
What is this thing?
This thing that doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, doesn't speak, doesn't clean,
but continues to drag itself around, hanging-on, with tears in its eyes.
This thing that sits touching its face, as if seeking familiarity
with its own crumbling features.
This thing that fears silence, fears solitude, fears darkness, fears death,
and yet doesn't remember how to live.
This thing, this ruin, that is and is not meine Mutter.
SA
