So here he goes Mr. Cogito - Zbigniew Herbert:
Report from the Besieged City |
| Too old to carry arms and fight like the others - they graciously gave me the inferior role of chronicler I record - I don't know for whom - the history of the siege I am supposed to be exact but I don't know when the invasion began two hundred years ago in December in September perhaps yesterday at dawn everyone here suffers from a loss of the sense of time all we have left is the place the attachment to the place we still rule over the ruins of temples spectres of gardens and houses if we lose the ruins nothing will be left I write as I can in the rhythm of interminable weeks monday: empty storehouses a rat became the unit of currency tuesday: the mayor murdered by unknown assailants wednesday: negotiations for a cease-fire the enemy has imprisoned our messengers we don't know where they are held that is the place of torture thursday: after a stormy meeting a majority of voices rejected the motion of the spice merchants for unconditional surrender friday: the beginning of the plague saturday: our invincible defender N.N. committed suicide sunday: no more water we drove back an attack at the eastern gate called the Gate of the Alliance all of this is monotonous I know it can't move anyone I avoid any commentary I keep a tight hold on my emotions I write about the facts only they it seems are appreciated in foreign markets yet with a certain pride I would like to inform the world that thanks to the war we have raised a new species of children our children don't like fairy tales they play at killing awake and asleep they dream of soup of bread and bones just like dogs and cats in the evening I like to wander near the outposts of the city along the frontier of our uncertain freedom. I look at the swarms of soldiers below their lights I listen to the noise of drums barbarian shrieks truly it is inconceivable the City is still defending itself the siege has lasted a long time the enemies must take turns nothing unites them except the desire for our extermination Goths the Tartars Swedes troops of the Emperor regiments of the Transfiguration who can count them the colours of their banners change like the forest on the horizon from delicate bird's yellow in spring through green through red to winter's black about distant ancient matters for example our friends beyond the sea I know they sincerely sympathize they send us flour lard sacks of comfort and good advice they don't even know their fathers betrayed us our former allies at the time of the second Apocalypse their sons are blameless they deserve our gratitude therefore we are grateful they have not experienced a siege as long as eternity those struck by misfortune are always alone the defenders of the Dalai Lama the Kurds the Afghan mountaineers now as I write these words the advocates of conciliation have won the upper hand over the party of inflexibles a normal hesitation of moods fate still hangs in the balance cemeteries grow larger the number of defenders is smaller yet the defence continues it will continue to the end and if the City falls but a single man escapes he will carry the City within himself on the roads of exile he will be the City we look in the face of hunger the face of fire face of death worst of all - the face of betrayal and only our dreams have not been humiliated The Envoy of Mr Cogito Go where those others went to the dark boundary for the golden fleece of nothingness your last prize go upright among those who are on their knees among those with their backs turned and those toppled in the dust you were saved not in order to live you have little time you must give testimony be courageous when the mind deceives you be courageous in the final account only this is important and let your helpless Anger be like the sea whenever your hear the voice of the insulted and beaten let you sister Scorn not leave you for the informers executioners cowards - they will win they will go to your funeral with relief will throw a lump of earth the woodborer will write your smoothed-over biography and do not forgive truly it is not in your power to forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn beware however of unnecessary pride keep looking at your clown's face in the mirror repeat: I was called - weren't there better ones than I beware of dryness of heart love the morning spring the bird with an unknown name the winter oak light on a wall the splendour of the sky they don't need your warm breath they are there to say: no one will console you be vigilant - when the light on the mountains gives the sign- arise and go as long as blood turns in the breast your dark star repeat old incantations of humanity fables and legends because this is how you will attain the good you will not attain repeat great words repeat them stubbornly like those crossing the desert who perished in the sand and they will reward you with what they have at hand with the whip of laughter with murder on a garbage heap go because only in this way you will be admitted to the company of cold skulls to the company of your ancestors: Gilgamesh Hector Roland the defenders of the kingdom without limit and the city of ashes Be faithful Go
The Trial
I didn't speak the last word and yet for so many years I was composing the final speech to God to the court of the world to the conscience to the dead rather than the living roused to my feet by the guards I managed only to blink and then the room burst out in healthy laughter my atoptive mother laughed also the gavel banged and this really was the end but what happened after that – death by a noose or perhaps a punishment generously chained to a dungeon I’m afraid there is a third dark solution beyond the limits of time the senses and reason therefore when I wake I don't open my eyes I clench my fingers don't lift my head breathe lightly because truly I don't know how many minutes of air I still have left |
