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| The Trial During his great speech the prosecutor kept piercing me with his yellow index finger I'm afraid I didn't appear self-assured unintentionally I assumed a mask of fear and depravity like a rat caught in a trap an informer a fratricide the reporters were dancing a war dance I slowly burned at a stake of magnesia all of this took place in a small stifling room the floor the benches creaked plaster fell from the ceiling I counted knots in the boards holes in the wall faces the faces were alike almost identical assessors judges witnesses for the defence and the prosecution and also the audience—they belonged to the same organization I vainly hoped the defender was a man from town but he too was a member of the union of magicians in the first row sat an old fat woman dressed up as my mother with a theatrical gesture she kept raising a handkerchief to her dirty eyes but she didn't cry it must have lasted very long I don't know how long the old blood of the West was rising in the gowns of the judges the real trial went on in my cells they certainly knew the verdict earlier after a short rebellion they capitulated and slowly started to die one after the other I looked in amazement at my wax hands I didn't speak the last word and yet for so many months years I was composing the final speech to God to the court of the world to the conscience to the dead rather than the living roused to my feet by the guards I managed only to twist my head and then the room burst out in healthy laughter my adoptive mother laughed also the gavel banged and this was really the end I don't know if I was hung or if the punishment was changed to a life sentence I'm afraid however neither the one nor the other happened therefore when I wake I don't open my eyes I don't move my head my hands tightly against the body I breathe lightly because truly I don't know how many seconds of air I still have left - Zbigniew Herbert |
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