“Zwracam się do was, kapłani
nauczyciele, sędziowie, artyści
szewcy, lekarze, referenci
i do ciebie mój ojcze
Wysłuchajcie mnie.
Nie jestem młody
niech was smukłość mego ciała
nie zwodzi
ani tkliwa biel szyi
ani jasność otwartego czoła
ani puch nad słodką wargą
ni śmiech cherubiński
ni krok elastyczny
Nie jestem młody
niech was moja niewinność
nie wzrusza
ani moja czystość
ani moja słabość
kruchość i prostota
mam lat dwadzieścia
jestem mordercą
jestem narzędziem
tak ślepym jak miecz
w dłoni kata
zamordowałem człowieka.
Okaleczony nie widziałem
ani nieba ani róży
ptaka, gniazda, drzewa
świętego Franciszka
Achillesa i Hektora
Przez sześć lat
buchał z nozdrza opar krwi
Nie wierzę w przemianę wody w wino
nie wierzę w grzechów odpuszczenie
nie wierzę w ciała zmartwychwstanie”
"I turn to you, bishops
teachers, judges, artists
shoemakers, doctors, referents
and to you, my father
Hear me out.
I am not young.
let my slender figure
not lead you astray
nor the whiteness of my neck
nor the brightness of my open forehead
nor the fuzz over my sweet lips
neither my cherubic laughter
nor the spring in my step.
I am not young
let my innocence
not move you
nor my purity
nor my weakness
fragility and simplicity
I am twenty years of age
I am a murderer
I am a tool
as blind as the sword
in an executioner’s hand
I killed a man.
Wounded, I never saw
neither sky nor rose
bird, nest, nor tree
Saint Francis
Achilles and Hector
For six years
my nostrils were assaulted with the smell of blood
I don’t believe in turning water to wine
I don’t believe in the forgiving of sins
I don’t believe in resurrection of the body”
-Tadeusz Różański, “Lament”
Submitted by Ewa (thegladka). (I drew this at three in the morning, knowing I wouldn’t be able to sleep otherwise, so please pardon my handwriting.)
This poem was published in a collection entitled Niepokój (“Disquiet”) by Tadeusz Różański in 1947 and tells about how a man (the author being the narrator), aged twenty, has seen more in this brief span than anybody should ever see in a lifetime. He tells you, "I am not young,” because the war has made him an old man. I interpreted this slightly differently, because from the minute I saw this, I knew that those were words that would have been Feliks’. Broken, defeated, and crushed- but not beaten. He’s seen so much in his lifetime, and he has to pretend in front of everybody that he’s like, totally fine because he knows that he won’t ever be pitied if he breaks down- just to pick himself back down.
“neither my cherubic laughter
nor the spring in my step”
The last three lines are especially fitting because Feliks is often identified with a phoenix, who can be killed time and again but will always rise up out of the ashes.
"I don’t believe in resurrection of the body.”
He doesn’t think he can do it anymore.
My drawing is purposely unfinished, to how a certain sketchiness, how he doesn’t even know who he is anymore.
“I am twenty years of age.
I am a murderer.
I am a tool.
as blind as the sword in an executioner’s hand.”
I will definitely be drawing more on this, this is just a preliminary drawing- more to come.
