This Is It, Your

/, Blesok no. 45/This Is It, Your

This Is It, Your

This Is It, Your
Drift
Being Borned
Fear of Sugar (a sestina for Angela)
We"ll Be Meeting
A Poppy by the Rails

La niña del bello rostro / sigue cogiendo aceituna,
con el brazo gris del viento / ceñido por la cintura.
The girl with the pretty face / keeps on picking olives
with the grey arm of the wind / wrapped around her waist.
– Federico García Lorca, “Arbolè, Arbolè”

The wind’s cold arm holds me, embraces me all day,
while I stand by the ruins of this railway station.

No reason to be here, for me-I won’t see you, nor vice
versa– but instead of letting coins make up my mind

or picking olives as I do every day, I’ve decided to wait
like a pale phrase, a poppy by the rails, in this ridiculous

red dress. Something, which I cannot explain, makes
me hang on to my faith that you, in spite of the years

that have passed, will return for me. By myself,
I freeze. Each September my belief gets stronger:

maybe this time you’ll remember the day I was born,
perhaps by thirsting and rehearsing I’ll create you.

One day, I believe, this wind will take mercy on me:
it’ll go away. You’ll arrive, as promised; maybe today.

AuthorMagdalena Horvat
2018-08-21T17:23:18+00:00 November 1st, 2005|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 45|0 Comments