In a moving line ‘Last line’ author, Jędrzej Lipski – historian, philosopher, writer and filmmaker – gives the level to those who stayed at the station until the end. It's a deep, poignant reflection on heroism, silence, suffering, and unending belief in the meaning of the conflict for freedom.
Leipzig, besides known for its independency activity in the 1980s and the position of a political prisoner, this song pays a poetic tribute to those who – even in the face of the death and demolition of the planet – did not give up.
Publication of this work Solidarity is not only an expression of memory, but besides a form of poetic manifesto of the spirit of independence.
Row:
Last line
Silence. And only the breath can hear it hit
A wall of earth that no longer protects.
There, under the banner, stands a fistful of survivors,
When the first ranks were consumed by fire.
They're not screaming. There's no 1 to yell at God anymore.
No report, no commander, no plan, no retreat.
There's only land that got wet in the fingers,
And weapons — so old that it remembers “the freedom of the nation.”
Right stacks. There's a bleeding wound to the left.
And they continue, though the planet is falling upon them.
Not for a reward. Not out of fear. But on the banners.
For myself. For those who died in their own blood.
Where the last reductions just fell,
Where the enemy is digging to kill to the limit
A common, gray, no charge, no shoes,
Because Poland does not end, and it will not die for nothing!
About the author:
Jędrzej Lipski – historian, doctor of philosophy, writer and filmmaker. In the 1980s, independency opposition activist and political prisoner. Active student and labour striker after martial law was introduced, interned, a colporteur of underground releases. In the 3rd Poland writer and editor, among others, in the "West Journal", Polish Radio and TVP Historia. manager and author of many documentary films on Polish history. He was awarded the Knight's Cross of the Order of Polonia Restituta and the Cross of Freedom and Solidarity.
