Ivan the factory
Ezekiel"s chariot
Kraków, Kazimierz
Šalamun"s temple
Ethno counting-out

Translated by Damir Šodan

for Blanka and Petar

Thousands upon thousands of dead
must talk and talk
so that somewhere in the forest
a single mushroom can sprout
at a spot entirely out of their reach.

That’s what I would like you to remember me by
if you can remember what’s been said
I was told in a dream by a certain someone
whose name I do not dare to speak out.

With eyes lowered to the dust
on a multi-track railway
the trains zoom by each other
through the cathedral
whose bells
chiming inside the membrane of an eye
started us from our sleep.

You know that
24 times in a single second
death stops by the roadside water-pump
examining secretly
in a puddle
in a mirror evaporating
into an ancient and icy mirage
its bluish face of a girl
collecting sticks in a school-yard.

We rode our bicycles that day
and stopped by a factory
with chimneys spouting
silver pillows.

These people really have a gift for oracles
you said with lips somewhat strangely slanted.

Your son slept in the next room.

The cleaning lady on the fourth floor
just at the level of our eyes
scattered raspberry seeds
all across the floor and all over shelves
and in mid-summer
sprinkled artificial snow
upon her sweating face.

She might have been around fifty
and kept laughing long after
in the departing tram.

AuthorDelimir Rešicki
2018-08-21T17:22:57+00:00 June 25th, 2009|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 66|0 Comments