Andrzej Juliusz Sarwa
THE MARCHERS
In memory of Georges Cadoudal
On they go, distant and a-shining
bearing, bearing on their feet
clumps of long forgotten soil
the staffs of the banners creak
crimson and gold a-flutter
the flags wave in the wind
the flags rip with a snap.
Begone, your carious corpses
back to your crumbling coffins
and let the lids shut you up
for the aeons ahead
why to upbraid us
we aren’t any better
why to upbraid us
we are the same?
On they go, on from afar
whence?
Who knows this?
On they go, on from afar
whither?
Who knows this?
The leaves have gone sere
in the laurel wreaths
the rusty royal crowns
are rolled with a rattle on the road
templed on by the feet
on those who belive
they are better
than kings
The door withered open
onto the end of the world
onto the Judgment Day
whit will be terrorising
with trumpets and plague.
The greyness and the fog
the echoes rebound from the rocks
the poignant taste of the evening
the coolness of dew on the feet.
Shimmer, they shimmer silver and gold
So far, far away from the stars…
And then they blow the trumpets again
and then they shout the words again
words one never understands
though would like to.
The days crumble one after another
they pluck out moments from eternity
musing turns
mutinies mute
rapture bliss and regret
And all this, all for us
and all this, all in vain
but you won’t leave us, will you
amidst the road
the nowhere.
Don’t wait till the words
that we haven’t had enough of
swell grow
merge into one.
On the plinth the solemn saints
with cut faces
sometimes will reach out their hands to the sky,
or sometimes hide them diffidently.
Staring at the tree-tops.
Lightly covered in snow,
or shivering when November
slashes with drizzling rain.
On the plinth the solemn saints
from days of old
which were not of ours
though without them
there wouldn’t be us…
The fingers run over the manual
Bach washes the vault of the cathedral
off prayers not yet ripe
Cleans away the sins from the grating
of the confessionals
where they clang smelly and sticky
The Madonnas from the old paintings
From the Byzantine icons
don’t know smiling
their sadness accompanies us
every day again and again…
Gothic Christ with a woeful face
please raise your eyelids!
You can’t still be quite.
Open your mouth
it’ll suffice
Even words are unnecessary
unnecessary gestures
if we see
the moving of the lips
swollen from the hitting of a fist
Still they keep going
never to they rest
when shall we join
that procession
with no end?
And they still carry
the ripped banners
though the hands are tired
and the fingers have grown numb
bitten by cold wind
of the recurring winters
The buds on the boughs
are swelling with the sap
not for them though do they swell
not for them!
Those buds of the springs of old
had blown long ago
and shed the yellow leaves to the ground
Yet there will come
such a moment
when the procession will stop -
the guide will kneel
the tainted crown
will he wipe in his coat
Clean the dust
wipe the spit
the blessed ring for which
the pas generations
had nothing
curses and sneer
and then away will they throw
the crimons and gold
banners ripped in the wind
And then away will they throw
staffs eaten by time
of long before falsified truths.
For now though they keep going
even though they themselves don’t know
how long
the road will be.
For the time being though
their feet beat the time
they leave traces in the dust
on the winding roads…
For the time being though
still flutter
crimson and gold…
Though it seemed
it would be enough
to deny
wverything
they had belived in
for years, for centuries.
Thought it seemed
life would be easier
if no one but
ourselves
ourselves
could do harm…
Among the supernovas
red dwarfs
the chaos of the nebulas
we feel a lump in our throat
the lips wrapped in the cobweb’s
tiny thread
and yet in our breast
terrible a cry is rissing
...they won’t let it off
Smash the tombs
raise the decayed bones
from the relics
on the years gone by.
Wash them in a vivifying wine
clote them
in armour suits
hide under helmets…
We are still waiting for a miracle,
but it isn’t happening -
it isn’t happening
because
we are not worth
to be given signs from above…
The night has sprawled over the world
dark and mute
one of many
yet not the same
as the others
The unquenchable night!
For noe though
is it really worth while
in the midst of it
this waiting for the miracle?…
Let’s stop believing
that the heaven above
has been deserted
and the dead are silent
let’s stop awaiting
yonder lightning
to flare up within us
the suffocating soul
let’s stop calling at
the blurred dream
expecting
it to come true…
There is no soul within us?
No! - it is there!
There is no faith is us?
So where is it,
this endeared one,
this beloved one?
Let’s stop waiting
for that justice,
which made the faces black and blue
from advocating
let’s rid of
that gullbility
which made us wait
wait still…
Why can’t we at night
hear
borers drill?
Why have the crickets
behind the fireplace
gone mute?
Why have the days
lost their resemblance
to dreams?
Why have we grown immune
to the daily rains?
And why is not enough
time
for the daily self-examination?…
Each day
when we ask
(no matter what
whatever)
the beast
with a terrible face
of a humanised angel
stares through the pane
begging.
Its voice
doesn’t reach
our ears.
Out of the movement of the lips
we guess
it is begging
and then
our questions
become unimportant.
And the one from behind the pane
still moves
his lips
as if it was trying
to say a prayer…
Meanwhile they go on
beating the time with their feet
let’s join the march
of the bygone ghosts
which go distant and a-shining
bearing, bearing on their feet
clumps of long forgotten soil.
The staffs of the banners creak
crimson and gold a-flutter
the flags wave in the wind
the flags rip with a snap…
The leaves have gone sere
in the laurel wreaths
the rusty royal crowns
are rolled with a rattle on the road
trampled on by the feet
of those who believe no more
they are better
than kings…
Translated by Jaroslav Kijak
© Copyright by Andrzej Sarwa & Jaroslav Kijak 2000
All Rights Reserved
All Rights Reserved
