The poorest women in Berlin

- thirteen children in one and a half rooms,

Whores, prisoners, outcasts -

hunch their bodies and whimper.

Nowhere is there so much shouting.

There is nowhere pain and suffering

not at all as noted here,

because something is always screaming here.



"Press, woman! You understand, yes?

You are not there for pleasure!

Don't drag it out for Sid.

There is also excrement in the crowd!

You are not there to rest.

It won't come by itself. You have to do something!

Finally it comes: bluish and small.

Urine and stool anoint it.



From eleven beds with tears and blood

greets it with a whimper as a salute.

A chorus breaks out of two eyes
of anniversaries up to heaven.



Through this little meaty piece of meat
everything will go: misery and happiness.

And one day it dies in rattle and agony.

There are twelve others in this room.