Hans Sahl - Wir sind die Letzten // We are the last ones Wir sind die

Hans Sahl - Wir sind die Letzten // We are the last ones Wir sind die

A poem I translated a while ago, in the summer of 2013. I remember reading this the first time moved me so
much and motivated me to conduct the interview with Cornelius Bischoff, the former translator of Yaşar Kemal.
There is a past we can almost not access anymore, one that is fading, that we won't be able to get in touch with
anymore at one point.
The word I love the most in here is "Zettelkasten". I have this thing with nouns, especially compositas. They are
so heavy and carry so much meaning. It is always painful to tear them apart in another language, such as
"Letzten", which becomes small and two words in English.
There is this long tradition with "Zettelkästen" at german Universities, that our generation can most likely not
imagine anymore. When research actually was research, a long, almost physical, procedure. What beautiful
nostalgia. I remember the "Zettelkasten" at my Institute at the University of Hamburg still. I still was introduced
to it, although most of the works were already online. Words vanish with their objects. Even "Bauchladen" is
one that one doesn't hear anymore that much, maybe not at all. But isn't the poem almost shaped like one?
Hans Sahl - Wir sind die Letzten // We are the last ones
Wir sind die Letzten.
Fragt uns aus.
Wir sind zuständig.
Wir tragen den Zettelkasten
Mit den Steckbriefen unserer Freunde
wie einen Bauchladen vor uns her.
Forschungsinstitute bewerben sich
Um Wäscherechnungen Verschollener,
Museen bewahren die Stichworte unserer Agonie
wie Reliquien unter Glas auf.
Wir, die wir unsere Zeit vertrödelten,
aus begreiflichen Gründen,
sind zu Trödlern des Unbegreiflichen geworden.
Unser Schicksal steht unter Denkmalschutz.
Unser bester Kunde ist das
schlechte Gewissen der Nachwelt.
Greift zu, bedient euch.
Wir sind die Letzten.
Fragt und aus.
Wir sind zuständig.
//
We are the last ones.
Interrogate us.
We are in charge.
We carry the card box
of our friends profiles
like a hawker's tray in front of us.
Research institutions apply
For missing peoples laundry bills,
Museums conserve the keywords of our Agony
like a relict under glas.
We, the ones who dawdled away time,
for comprehensible reasons,
became dawdlers of the Incomprehensible.
Our destiny is listed.
Our best customer is the
guilty conscience of posterity.
Grab it, help yourselves.
We are the last ones.
Interrogate us.
We are in charge.