I never believed in the spirit of history
an invented monster with a murderous look
dialectical beast on a leash led by slaughterers
nor in you—four horsemen of the apocalypse
Huns of progress galloping over earthly and heavenly steppes
destroying on the way everything worthy of respect old and defenseless
I spent years learning the simplistic cogwheels of history
a monotonous procession hopeless struggle
scoundrels at the head of confused crowds
against the handful of those who were honest courageous aware
I have very little left
not many
objects
or compassion
light heartedly we leave the gardens of childhood gardens of things
shedding in flight manuscripts oil-lamp dignity pens
such is our illusory journey at the edge of nothingness
pen with an ancient nib forgive my unfaithfulness
and you inkwell—there are still so many good thoughts in you
forgive me kerosene lamp—you are dying in my memory like a deserted campsite
I paid for the betrayal
but I did not know then
you were leaving forever
and that it will be dark
—Zbigniew Herbert
(translated by Bogdana and John Carpenter)