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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=581926" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>War Diary</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">1. Monday Evening </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You see, now fear often fingers your heart,<br>and at times the world seems only distant news;<br>the old trees guard your childhood for you<br>as an ever more ancient memory.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Between suspicious mornings and foreboding nights<br>you have lived half your life among wars,<br>and now once more, order is glinting toward you<br>on the raised points of bayonets.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In dreams sometimes the landscape still rises before you,<br>the home of your poetry, where the scent of freedom<br>wafts over the meadows, and in the morning when you wake,<br>you carry the scent with you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rarely, when you are working, you half-sit, frightened<br>at your desk. And it's as if you were living in soft mud;<br>your hand, adorned with a pen, moves heavily<br>and ever more gravely.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The world is turning into another war—a hungry cloud<br>gobbles the sky's mild blue, and as it darkens,<br>your young wife puts her arms around you,<br>and weeps.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">2. Tuesday Evening</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now I sleep peacefully<br>and slowly go about my work—<br>gas, airplanes, bombs are poised against me,<br>I can neither be afraid, nor cry;<br>so I live hard, like the road builders<br>among the cold mountains,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">who, if their flimsy house<br>crumbles over them with age,<br>put up a new one, and meanwhile<br>sleep deeply on fragrant wood shavings,<br>and in the morning, splash their faces<br>in the cold and shining streams.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I live high up, and peer around:<br>it is getting darker.<br>As when from a ship's prow<br>at the flash of lightning<br>the watchman cries out, thinking he sees land,<br>so I believe in the land also—and still I cry out life!<br>with a whitened voice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the sound of my voice brightens<br>and is carried far away<br>with a cool star and a cool evening wind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">3. Weary Afternoon</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A dying wasp flies in at the window,<br>my dreaming wife talks in her sleep,<br>and the hems of the browning clouds<br>are blown to fringes by a gentle breeze.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What can I talk about? Winter is coming, and war is coming;<br>soon I will lie broken, seen by no one;<br>worm-ridden earth will fill my mouth and eyes<br>and roots will pierce through my body.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, gently rocking afternoon, give me peace—<br>I will lie down too, and work later.<br>The light of your sun is already hanging on the hedges,<br>and yonder the evening comes across the hills.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They have killed a cloud, its blood is falling on the sky;<br>below, on the stems of the glowing leaves<br>sit wine-scented yellow berries.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">4. Evening Approaches</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Across the slick sky the sun is climbing down,<br>and the evening is coming early along the road.<br>Its coming is watched in vain by the sharp-eyed moon—<br>little puffs of mist are gathering.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The hedgerow is wakening, it catches at a weary wanderer;<br>the evening is spinning among the tree branches<br>and humming louder and louder, while these lines build up<br>and lean on one another.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A frightened squirrel springs into my quiet room,<br>and here a six-footed iambic couplet scampers by.<br>From the wall to the window, a brown moment—<br>and it's gone without a trace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The fleeting peace disappears with it. Silent<br>worms crawl over the far fields<br>and slowly chew to pieces the endless<br>rows of the reclining dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Miklos+Radnoti">Miklos Radnoti</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=581926" data-title="War Diary de Miklos Radnoti" data-description="1. Monday Evening 

You see, now fear often fingers your heart,
and at times the world seems only distant news;
the old trees guard your childhood for you
as an ever more ancient memory.

Between suspicious mornings and foreboding nights
you have ..."></div>
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