Too old to carry arms and fight like the others - they graciously gave me the inferior role of chronicler I record - I don't know for whom - the history of the siege I am supposed to be exact but I don't know when the invasion began two hundred years ago in December in September perhaps yesterday at dawn everyone here suffers from a loss of the sense of time all we have left is the place the attachment to the place we still rule over the ruins of temples spectres of gardens and houses if we lose the ruins nothing will be left I write as I can in the rhythm of interminable weeks monday: empty storehouses a rat became the unit of currency tuesday: the mayor murdered by unknown assailants wednesday: negotiations for a cease-fire the enemy has imprisoned our messengers we don't know where they are held that is the place of torture thursday: after a stormy meeting a majority of voices rejected the motion of the spice merchants for unconditional surrender friday: the beginning of the plague saturday: our invincible defender N.
N. committed suicide sunday: no more water we drove back an attack at the eastern gate called the Gate of the Alliance all of this is monotonous I know it can't move anyone I avoid any commentary I keep a tight hold on my emotions I write about the facts only they it seems are appreciated in foreign markets yet with a certain pride I would like to inform the world that thanks to the war we have raised a new species of children our children don’t like fairy tales they play at killing awake and asleep they dream of soup of bread and bones just like dogs and cats in the evening I like to wander near the outposts of the city along the frontier of our uncertain freedom.
I look at the swarms of soldiers below their lights I listen to the noise of drums barbarian shrieks truly it is inconceivable the City is still defending itself the siege has lasted a long time the enemies must take turns nothing unites them except the desire for our extermination Goths the Tartars Swedes troops of the Emperor regiments of the Transfiguration who can count them the colours of their banners change like the forest on the horizon from delicate bird's yellow in spring through green through red to winter's black and so in the evening released from facts I can think about distant ancient matters for example our friends beyond the sea I know they sincerely sympathize they send us flour lard sacks of comfort and good advice they don’t even know their fathers betrayed us our former allies at the time of the second Apocalypse their sons are blameless they deserve our gratitude therefore we are grateful they have not experienced a siege as long as eternity those struck by misfortune are always alone the defenders of the Dalai Lama the Kurds the Afghan mountaineers now as I write these words the advocates of conciliation have won the upper hand over the party of inflexibles a normal hesitation of moods fate still hangs in the balance cemeteries grow larger the number of defenders is smaller yet the defence continues it will continue to the end and if the City falls but a single man escapes he will carry the City within himself on the roads of exile he will be the City we look in the face of hunger the face of fire face of death worst of all - the face of betrayal and only our dreams have not been humiliated
