Franco Fortini. Translating Brecht. A great storm for the entire afternoon curled on the rooves before breaking into lightning, water. I was staring at cement and glass verses where there were shouts and walled sores and limbs even of me, who survive them. With care, looking now at the battled shingles now at the dry paper, I listened the word of a poet die or change into another voice no longer for us. The oppressed are oppressed and quiet, the oppressors quiet they speak on the telephone, hatred is cordial, I myself believe I no longer know whose fault it is. Write, I tell myself, hate those who with sweetness drive you into nothingness the men and the women that go with you and I believe I do not know. Write your name as well along with those of the enemy. The storm ended with emphasis. Nature is too weak to imitate battles. Poetry doesn't change anything. Nothing is certain, but write.