"Too old to carry arms and to fight like others—they generously assigned to me the inferior role of a chroniclerI record—not knowing for whom—the history of the siegeI have to be precise but I don't know when the invasion begantwo hundred years ago in December in autumn perhaps yesterday at dawnhere everybody is losing the sense of timewe were left with the place an attachment to the placestill we keep ruins of temples phantoms of gardens of housesif we were to lose the ruins we would be left with nothingI write as I can in the rhythm of unending weeksmonday: storehouses are empty a rat is now a unit of currencytuesday: the mayor is killed by unknown assailantswednesday: talks of armistice the enemy interned our envoyswe don't know where they are being kept i.e. torturedthursday: after a stormy meeting the majority voted downthe motion of spice merchants on unconditional surrenderfriday: the onset of plague saturday: the suicide ofN.N., the most steadfast defender sunday: no water we repulsedthe attack at the eastern gate named the Gate of the AllianceI know all this is monotonous nobody would careI avoid comments keep emotions under control describe factsthey say facts only are valued on foreign marketsbut with a certain pride I wish to convey to the worldthanks to the war we raised a new species of childrenour children don't like fairy tales they play killingday and night they dream of soup bread bonesexactly like dogs and catsin the evening I like to wander in the confines of the Cityalong the frontiers of our uncertain freedomI look from above on the multitude of armies on their lightsI listen to the din of drums to barbaric shrieksit's incredible that the City is still resistingthe seige has been long the foes must replace each otherthey have nothing in common except a desire to destroy usthe Goths the Tartars the Swedes the Emperor's troops regiments of Our Lord's Transfigurationwho could count themcolors of banners change as does the forest on the horizonfrom the bird's delicate yellow in the spring through the green the red to the winter blackand so in the evening freed from facts I am able to give thoughtto bygone far away matters for instance to ourallies overseas I know they feel true compassionthey send us flour sacks of comfort lard and good counselwithout even realizing that we were betrayed by their fathersour former allies from the time of the second Apocalypsetheir sons are not guilty they deserve our gratitude we are so gratefulthey have never lived through the eternity of a siegethose marked by misfortune are always aloneDalai Lama's defenders Kurds Afghan mountaineersnow as I write these words proponents of compromisehave won a slightly advantage over the part of the dauntlessusual shifts of mood our fate is still in the balancecemeteries grow larger the number of defenders shrinksbut the defense continues and will last to the endand even if the City falls and one of us surviveshe will carry the City inside him on the roads of exilehe will be the Citywe look at the face of hunger the face of fire the face of deathand the worst of them all—the face of treasonand only our dreams have not been humiliated"
Zbigniew Herbert
"Too old to carry arms and to fight like others—they generously assigned to me the inferior role of a chroniclerI record—not knowing for whom—the history of the siegeI have to be precise but I don't know when the invasion begantwo hundred years ago in December in autumn perhaps yesterday at dawnhere everybody is losing the sense of timewe were left with the place an attachment to the placestill we keep ruins of temples phantoms of gardens of housesif we were to lose the ruins we would be left with nothingI write as I can in the rhythm of unending weeksmonday: storehouses are empty a rat is now a unit of currencytuesday: the mayor is killed by unknown assailantswednesday: talks of armistice the enemy interned our envoyswe don't know where they are being kept i.e. torturedthursday: after a stormy meeting the majority voted downthe motion of spice merchants on unconditional surrenderfriday: the onset of plague saturday: the suicide ofN.N., the most steadfast defender sunday: no water we repulsedthe attack at the eastern gate named the Gate of the AllianceI know all this is monotonous nobody would careI avoid comments keep emotions under control describe factsthey say facts only are valued on foreign marketsbut with a certain pride I wish to convey to the worldthanks to the war we raised a new species of childrenour children don't like fairy tales they play killingday and night they dream of soup bread bonesexactly like dogs and catsin the evening I like to wander in the confines of the Cityalong the frontiers of our uncertain freedomI look from above on the multitude of armies on their lightsI listen to the din of drums to barbaric shrieksit's incredible that the City is still resistingthe seige has been long the foes must replace each otherthey have nothing in common except a desire to destroy usthe Goths the Tartars the Swedes the Emperor's troops regiments of Our Lord's Transfigurationwho could count themcolors of banners change as does the forest on the horizonfrom the bird's delicate yellow in the spring through the green the red to the winter blackand so in the evening freed from facts I am able to give thoughtto bygone far away matters for instance to ourallies overseas I know they feel true compassionthey send us flour sacks of comfort lard and good counselwithout even realizing that we were betrayed by their fathersour former allies from the time of the second Apocalypsetheir sons are not guilty they deserve our gratitude we are so gratefulthey have never lived through the eternity of a siegethose marked by misfortune are always aloneDalai Lama's defenders Kurds Afghan mountaineersnow as I write these words proponents of compromisehave won a slightly advantage over the part of the dauntlessusual shifts of mood our fate is still in the balancecemeteries grow larger the number of defenders shrinksbut the defense continues and will last to the endand even if the City falls and one of us surviveshe will carry the City inside him on the roads of exilehe will be the Citywe look at the face of hunger the face of fire the face of deathand the worst of them all—the face of treasonand only our dreams have not been humiliated"
Zbigniew Herbert