A Farwell To The Guns Of August?

a ballad about us not ceasing to exit by Zbigniew Herbert


Those who sailed out at dawn
but will never come back
they left their trace on the surface --

at such times into the deep of sea falls a shell
beautiful as a mouth turned to stone

those who walked the sandy trail
but did not make it to the shutters
although the roofs were already in sight

within a bell of air they have shelter

and those who orphaned only
a cold room a few books
an empty inkwell blank sheets --

indeed those did not die completely

their whisper wafts through thickets of wallpaper
in the ceiling a flat head lives on
of air water lime earth
a paradise was fixed for them their angel of wind
crumbles the body in hand
they will
carry upon the meadows of this here earth


Translated by Marek Lugowski

© crossconnect 1995-1998


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