2nd volume, no. 61, Page 13
2nd volume, no. 61, Page 14

cover / introduction table of contents

Last Dance 1944

Time, it runs, time, it races,
And again, a year comes to an end
And still peace did not come,
The year passed, the year trickled away,
Fate spun its threads,
The war was not decided.

The old year often disappointed,
We had hoped for freedom
And it did not come,
We waited for it so long,
But it took a different course
Than we had thought.

At the beginning, we were convinced,
At the end, we are very disappointed
And feel almost deceived,
The dream of peace was not fulfilled,
Still raging high and wild
Are the bloody waves of war.

Only a pile of rubble remains of our hope,
Our optimism was shattered,
We mourn and turn sour,
We still hoped when it began
Today we almost no longer believe in it,
It took too long.

The old year did not bring much luck,
A heap of rubbish remained
Of unfulfilled dreams,
We feel somewhat drained
And take the broom in hand
To clean up the remains.

Wistfully, we look at the mess,
Many illusions are gone
And many castles in the air.
Slightly melancholic, we may be,
But we see clearly, the new year
Will surely make it better.

Who mourns for this old year,
Which was so disappointing for us,
Which is now leaving us.
A new year stands at the door,
Come in, we call,
May it bring freedom!

Post-Editing: Eleonore A. Speckens