[*\Conan/*]

A poem by: Hans Magnus Enzensberger

We can't complain.
We're not out of work.
We don't go hungry.
We eat.

The grass grows,
the social product,
the fingernail,
the past.

The streets are empty.
The deals are closed.
The sirens are silent.
All that will pass.

The dead have made their wills.
The rain's become a drizzle.
The war's not yet been declared.
There's no hurry for that.

We eat the grass
We eat the social product.
We eat the fingernails.
We eat the past.

oh we know it
oh we know