Zbigniew Herbert
We are standing under the wall. Our
youth has been taken off like a shirt from
the condemned men. We wait. Before the
fat bullet will sit down on the nape of the
neck, ten, twenty years pass. The wall is
high and strong. Behind the wall is a tree
and a star. The tree pries at the wall with
its roots. The star nibbles the stone like a
mouse. In a hundred, two hundred years
there will already be a small window.
