Poems 0091丨IN THE CUPBOARD丨By Zbigniew Herbert
I always suspected that the city was a falsification. But it was only on a foggy afternoon in early spring, when the air smells of starch, that I discovered the nature of the fraud. We are living inside a cupboard, in the lowest depths of oblivion, among broken poles and shut boxes. Six brown walls, the trouser legs of clouds above our heads, and what until recently we took for a cathedral but which is really a swarthy bottle of evaporated perfume.
O poor nights, when we pray to the passing comet of a moth.
"The Collected Poems 1956-1998"
Publishied by HarperCollins 2007
Translated by ALISSA VALLES
Translated by CZESLAW MILOSZ