REPORT FROM THE BESIEGED CITY

- by Zbigniew Herbert (1924~1998)

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

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
and so in the evening released from facts I can think
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

* * *

Zbigniew Herbert (1924~1998) - Polish poet, essayist, drama writer and moralist. A member of the Polish resistance movement, Home Army, during World War II, he is one of the best known and the most translated post-war Polish writers. - Translated from the Polish by Zbigniew Herbert.

Picture: The City of God; The City of Man, - by Agosthino