ZBIGNIEW HERBERT
“Dream Language”

when I sleep
like everyone
before dawn rises
I wind the clock

I sink on a white
ship
waves wash me
from the white ship
I look for keys
I kill a dragon
which laughs
I light a lamp
but above all
I chatter

I suspect that
we all dream in images
but I spin
all these crazy yarns
as if sleeping
in a mound
of narrative

but that is what
dream language
should be like
a fine language
with a long arm
airy
it flouts grammar
phonetic principles
a language of mockery
a language I don’t know

when I sleep
in the cat’s place
the bronze body
is pierced by a shudder
we moan like a melody

when I sleep
in the cat’s place
sometimes my body
is pierced by a shudder
a melody like a moan
audible to the ear

at such times
dream language
closes itself off
independent
of weariness

pure
a language of sweet dread

ZBIGNIEW HERBERT - “Dream Language”

when I sleep
like everyone
before dawn rises
I wind the clock

I sink on a white
ship
waves wash me
from the white ship
I look for keys
I kill a dragon
which laughs
I light a lamp
but above all
I chatter

I suspect that
we all dream in images
but I spin
all these crazy yarns
as if sleeping
in a mound
of narrative

but that is what
dream language
should be like
a fine language
with a long arm
airy
it flouts grammar
phonetic principles
a language of mockery
a language I don’t know

when I sleep
in the cat’s place
the bronze body
is pierced by a shudder
we moan like a melody

when I sleep
in the cat’s place
sometimes my body
is pierced by a shudder
a melody like a moan
audible to the ear

at such times
dream language
closes itself off
independent
of weariness

pure
a language of sweet dread

ZBIGNIEW HERBERT - “A Ballad That We Do Not Perish”

Those who sailed at dawn
but will never return
left their trace on a wave—

a shell fell to the bottom of the sea
beautiful as lips turned to stone

those who walked on a sandy road
but could not reach the shuttered windows
though they already saw the roofs—

they have found shelter in a bell of air

but those who leave behind only
a room grown cold a few books
an empty inkwell white paper—

in truth they have not completely died
their whisper travels through thickets of wallpaper
their level head still lives in the ceiling

their paradise was made of air
of water lime and earth an angel of wind
will pulverize the body in its hand
they will be
carried over the meadows of this world

ZBIGNIEW HERBERT - 
“From The Top Of The Stairs”

Of course
those who are standing at the top of the stairs
know
they know everything

with us it’s different
sweepers of squares
hostages of a better future
those at the top of the stairs
appear to us rarely
with a hushing finger always at the mouth

we are patient
our wives darn the sunday shirts
we talk of food rations
soccer prices of shoes
while on saturday we tilt the head backward
and drink

we aren’t those
who clench their fists
brandish chains
talk and ask questions
in a fever of excitement
urging to rebel
incessantly talking and asking questions

here is their fairy tale -
we will dash at the stairs
and capture them by storm
the heads of those who were standing at the top
will roll down the stairs
and at last we will gaze
at what can be seen from those heights
what future
what emptiness

we don’t desire the view
of rolling heads
we know how easily heads grow back
and at the top there will always remain
one or three
while at the bottom it is black from brooms and shovels

sometimes we dream
those at the top of the stairs
come down
that is to us
and as we are chewing bread over the newspaper
they say

- now let’s talk
man to man
what the posters shout out isn’t true
we carry the truth in tightly locked lips
it is cruel and much too heavy
so we bear the burden by ourselves
we aren’t happy
we would gladly stay
here

these are dreams of course
they can come true
or not come true
so we will
continue to cultivate
our square of dirt
square of stone

with a light head
a cigarette behind the ear
and not a drop of hope in the heart