So I'm going to be forced to be brief, once again (don't worry, my usual long-windedness will take over soon enough). I brought along a book of "Modern European Poetry" (it includes Rilke, so that gives you an idea of their concept of what's "modern"), but found this by Gunter Grass, who I mostly knew of as a novelist.
I can't tell if it's about God or the Berlin Wall, but either way it's fantastic and so far the best thing I've found that I hadn't seen before.
In the Egg
Gunter Grass
We live in the egg.
We have covered the inside wall
of the shell with dirty drawings
and the Christian names of our enemies.
We are being hatched.
Whoever is hatching us
is hatching our pencils as well.
Set free from the egg one day
at once we shall make an image
of whoever is hatching us.
We assume that we're being hatched.
We imagine some good-natured fowl
and write school essays
about the color and breed
of the hen that is hatching us.
When shall we break the shell?
Our prophets inside the egg
for a middling salary argue
about the period of incubation.
They posit a day called X.
Out of boredom and genuine need
we have invented incubators.
We are much concerned about our offspring inside the egg.
We should be glad to recommend our patient
to her who looks after us.
But we have a roof over our heads.
Senile chicks,
polyglot embryos
chatter all day
and even discuss their dreams.
And what if we're not being hatched?
If this shell will never break?
If our horizon is only that
of our scribbles, and always will be?
We hope that we're being hatched.
Even if we only talk of hatching
there remains fear that someone
outside our shell will feel hungry
and crack us into the frying pan with a pinch of salt.
What shall we do then, my brethren inside the egg?
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