A huge thunderstormrolled around in coils all afternoon abovethe roof-tops before it broke in flashes and sheeted down.I stared at the lines of cement and glassthat walled up screams and wounds and limbsincluding mine, which I have survived. Warily, lookingnow up at the roof-tiles doing battle, now at the dry page,I listened to the wordof a poet perish or changeinto another voice we no longer hear. The oppressedare oppressed and quiet, quietly the oppressorstalk on the phone, hatred is polite, and even Ibelieve I no longer know who is to blame.Write, I tell myself, hatethose who sweetly lead into nothingnessthe men and women who walk beside youand believe they do not know. Write your name tooamong those of the enemy. The stormhas passed away with all its bluster. Natureis far too feeble to mimic battles. Poetrychanges nothing. Nothing is certain, but write.--Franco Fortini, Translating Brecht, written 1957-62. Trans. Paul Lawton.