"Their land is full of idols; they bow down to the work of their hands, to what their fingers have made.
So man will be brought low and mankind humbled--do not forgive them."
Towarzysz Barosso tommorrow is making his historical State of the Union address and in old manner that reminds us so much old time of the only correct party has called for mandatory participation. He is expecting something great, something breakingfull and our Israeli friends are doing what is in thier power to deliver our collection: Black Maddona with Christ and our Uncle, Jean Paul II. Thanks God i see on the streets of our city that jewish defiance is slowly waking up and not too much has left in thier power. Still, they are desperated, paniced and trought this dangerous. Please, do not be surprised by my comparision to Bolsheviks, the borderline between National Socialism and Bolshevis ideology is very subtel and the hyphen between them is just in Tel Aviv...
On Sunday people in my Slavic region, in Moldovia instead of going to pro Western referendum has decided to stay in homes. Terrified by the State of the Union, European Union and the vision presented by our authorities instead of going to pools has boycoted this referendum and pool has failed. They does not want to have such Europe for them and thier childrens, Europe that we all know whatever from Nazi or Bolshevik occupation. We all see Teutons and people, especially in my region, because of past, culture and tradition will be always rejecting them. For whatever they will disguise themself, they will be not able to fool our people all the time. They all share same dream...
Report from besieged city
To old to carry a gun and fight, as others. Choosen by the clemency of voice, in intermediary role of chronicel. I am writing, do not know for whom, the story of besiege.
I should be precisious, but i do not know when raid has started. Was it 200 years ago, in December, in September or maybe yesterday at dusk? 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, as 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 Lord 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...
S. I. Witkiewicz
Beth Khoron, 1982
The text published above was authored by my grandfather and published under name of his close friend Zbigniew Herbert. He, Stanislaw mostly know, as Ignacy Witkiewicz was this famous Mr. Cogito. It is interesting to observe constant effort to revise the history, the headline of this poem is often cutted off from the performance or is changed in the way that it does not mention 'the voice', that is key to understand who was writing this words. Zbigniew has died in Paris, long before our dreams had even possibility to become reality and whole truth about Mr. Cogito could be revealed to the public.
They say that Herbert was fightingh with the asthma, so i suposse that he was just poisoned, as they did with Karol Wojtyla. Eliminating us, one by one. The other possibility is that he did not listened to my grandfather message, betrayed us and has come on same road that many before him. Maybe just to hide the truth about Mr. Cogito, true author of many of his poems. Living at time of thier publishment, in Soviet occupied Poland. Anyway, the poems and the oppression has stayed acctual, for his son and grandson. Since 200 years, since December, since September. No, it is not antisemitism and you does not see Proffessor Wilczur Bolsheviks. This time not with Red but Pink star. Or rather just pentagram, symbol of Ball, the false God. Better listen to Mr Cogito message...