A youthful German essayist who was truly injured in The Second Great War then, at that point, detained for opposition exercises. Truly obliterated, he lived just a short time after the conflict. During that time he composed antiwar writing that is generally perused in Germany however semi-secret in the USA, where it is presently generally required. His play about a damaged veteran, DRAUSSEN VOR DER TÜR (THE MAN OUTSIDE), brought him scholarly distinction after his passing. “Dan gift est nor eons!” (“Then, at that point, There’s Just a single Decision”) is the last sonnet he composed before his at 26 years old. It shows a discerning prescience of the certainty of worldwide obliteration except if individuals of the world will not serve the military.
You. Man at the machine in the plant. At the point when they let you know tomorrow to quit making pots and dish and on second thought make head protectors and automatic rifles, then there’s just a single decision: Say NO! You. Lady in the store, lady in the workplace. At the point when they let you know tomorrow to fill projectiles and mount scopes on rifleman rifles, then, at that point, there’s just a single decision: Say NO!
You manufacturing plant proprietor
At the point when they let you know tomorrow to make explosive rather than child powder, then there’s just a single decision: Say NO!
You. Analyst in the research facility. At the point when they let you know tomorrow to develop better approaches to kill individuals, then there’s just a single decision: Say NO!
You. Lyricist in your studio. At the point when they let you know tomorrow not to sing love melodies yet disdain tunes, then, at that point, there’s just a single decision: Say NO! You. Specialist in the center. At the point when they let you know tomorrow to announce fighters fit for battle, then there’s just a single decision: Say NO! You. Serve in the podium. At the point when they let you know tomorrow to favor murder and bless conflict, then, at that point, there’s just a single decision: Say NO! You. Skipper of the tanker. At the point when they let you know tomorrow to send cannons and tanks rather than wheat, then, at that point, there’s just a single decision: Say NO!
You. Pilot of the plane.
At the point when they let you know tomorrow to drop bombs on urban areas
Then, at that point, there’s just a single decision: Say NO! You. Tailor in your shop. At the point when they let you know tomorrow to make garbs, then there’s just a single decision: Say NO!
You. Judge in robes. At the point when they let you know tomorrow to serve on a court-military, then there’s just a single decision: Say NO! You. Railroad specialist. At the point when they let you know tomorrow to make a motion to send the troop and ammo trains, then there’s just a single decision: Say NO!
Man in the nation man in the city
At the point when they attempt to enroll you into the military, then, at that point, there’s just a single decision: Say NO! You. Mother in Normandy, mother in the Ukraine, you, mother in San Francisco and London, you, on the Yellow Stream and the Mississippi Waterway, you, mother in Naples and Hamburg and Cairo and Oslo — moms of all mainland, moms of the world, when they let you know tomorrow to bring up kids to be attendants for field emergency clinics and fighters for new fights, then, at that point, there’s just a single decision:
In the uproarious hot dusty port urban communities the extraordinary boats will moan into quietness and float like bodies of suffocated mammoths, slapping lazily against the forlorn harbors while green growth, kelp and mussels develop on the once thundering glimmering frames that currently lie breaking down in a watery burial ground smelling of soft rotted fish.
the trolleys will become dull silly glass-looked at scarabs lying roughly imprinted and stripping close to skeletons of tangled wires and rusted tracks, behind sheds with openings in the rooftops, in forsaken, cratered roads —a mud-dark, porridge-thick, heavy tranquility will turn over everything, gobbling up, developing spreading over schools and universities and theaters, over sport fields and jungle gyms, grim and voracious, relentless —
the succulent sun-matured grapes will spoil on their messed up arbors, the green rice will shrink on the dry earth, the potatoes will freeze in the unwanted fields, and the cows will raise their demise solidified legs like tops curvy draining stools towards paradise —in the exploration communities new meds found by extraordinary specialists will go to organism and form —in the kitchens, lounge areas and basements, in the chilly extra spaces and stockrooms, the last sacks of flour, the last containers of strawberries, pumpkins and cherry juice will ruin — the bread under the upset tables and crushed plates will become green, and the rank margarine will smell, the grain will lie limp as a fallen armed force in the fields close to rusting furrows, and the smokestacks of the beating manufacturing plants will fall and crush and disintegrate to be covered with everlasting grass.