War is no longer declared,
only continued. The monstrous
has become everyday. The hero
stays away from battle. The weak
have gone to the front.
The uniform of the day is patience,
its medal the pitiful star
of hope above the heart.
[...]

fra Ingeborg Bachmann: Every Day

I came into pasture land
when night had fallen,
sniffing out the scars in the meadows,
scenting the wind before it rose.
Love grazed no longer,
the bells had stopped ringing
and the sheaves were dry and worn.

A horn was stuck into the earth,
rammed there by the herd's leader,
hammered into the dark.

I drew it from the earth ,
I lifted it to the sky
with all my strength.

To fill this land
with music
I blew the horn,
ready to live in the coming wind
among the waving grasses
of every origin!

Ingeborg Bachmann: A New Land