Kaput
Kaput leži. Na podu.
Bez kapi krvi u sebi.
Kaput leži. Umoran,
zgrčen, odbačen i crn.
—Kapute! Kapute! Kapute!
—Mili brate! Ustani! Ustani!
Barem klekni kraj tvog
Milana Djordjevića!
Mili brate zasipan
snegovima, kišama,
pogrdama, laskanjima,
čuvaru moje samoće!
Ustani! Ustani!
Tako ti praznih džepova,
ispuniću ih mojim šakama.
Prhnuće krilima u tebi.
Tako ti zjapećih rukava,
pustiću izmučene životinjice,
moje ruke, u tebi da gmižu!
I kaput poče da diše,
otvori oči, zadrhta,
pokrenu jedan rukav,
raširi krila, polete, zagrakta,
zaogrnu me svojim mrakom.
I sad sam njegova utroba.
Overcoat
Overcoat lies. On the floor.
Without a drop of blood in it.
Overcoat lies. Weary.
Crumpled, discarded and black.
—Overcoat! Overcoat! Overcoat!
—Dear brother! Rise! Rise!
At least kneel next to your
Milan Djordjević!
Dear brother, guardian of my solitude,
beaten with rain, snow,
curses, flatteries!
Rise! Rise!
I will feel your empty pockets
with my hands.
They’ll flutter their wings in them.
Inside your gaping sleeves
I’ll let the threadbare little animals
that are my arms crawl!
So it may begin to breathe
and open its eyes, shudder,
then move one sleeve,
spread its wings, fly, caw
and drape me with its darkness.
I, who am its blood and guts.
San
Kad dodjem do njegove oštre ivice,
do ivice na kojoj bih mogao da se posečem
kao što sam palac na ivici belog papira posekao,
kao što sam belo sečivo svojom krvlju obojio,
kada dodjem, pogledam dole i vidim drugi san
grozniji od ovoga, san u kojem me neko sanja
deset godina posle moje nagle i nasilne smrti.
Jer znam, svi moji snovi umreće onoga dana
kada me smrt odnese na mesto gde više neće biti
ni imena ulica, ni brojeva kuća, niti kakvih adresa.
Znam, svi moji dani biće kao trunje i fina prašina
ispod ovog seoskog kreveta na kojem sanjam.
Svi moji dani biće niz vedara punih mleka
ili niz kablica ispunjenih ponoćnim tečnostima
mračnijim i gušćim od istopljenoga katrana.
I sva će se vedra i kablice na kraju prosuti.
I tako svoje crnilo i belinu izmešati.
The Dream
When I come to its sharp edge,
the sharp edge on which I may cut myself,
the way I cut my thumb on a sheet of white paper,
the way I colored its edge with my blood,
when I stood there, looked down, I saw a dream,
even more terrifying than this one,
a dream in which someone dreams of me
ten years after my sudden and violent death.
I know that all my dreams will die the day
death takes me to a place where streets
have no names, the houses no numbers or address.
I know all my days will be like crumbs and fine dust
under this country bed in which I lie dreaming.
My days will be a row of milk pails
and buckets filled with midnight liquids
darker and thicker than melted pitch,
so that in the end all the pails and buckets will be spilled
and everything dark and white in me will be mixed.
Stvarnost
Od čega se ona sastoji ili od čega je sastavljena?
Od kamičaka, reči, kretnji, od talasa, mrazeva,
seksa, mirisa ili od slika, bledih i žestokih slika?
Od umiranja, boleština, ljubavi i još od milijardu
drugih važnih, manje važnih ili nevažnih stvari
i bića koja nam se poput nekog vrlo glasnog krika
približavaju, udaljavaju, približavaju, udaljavaju?
Ili tek od jednog ogromnog i ispolinskoga daha
koji sve prožima ali jako ga je teško primetiti?
A mi ga samo naslućujemo, možda ga udišemo,
i pratimo noć i dan, kišu, vetar, sneg, sjaj sunca
i gotovo svaki strašni ili tek mirni san, san, san.
Kao kapljanje pomorandžinog soka i letenje
crvenih latica sveže a upravo otkinute bulke.
A okružuje nas stvarnost, to veliko obilje.
Plitka kao bara, kao živi vulkan duboka.
U samom oku ali i ispod znatiželjnog oka.
Teče i menja se kao oblost u čistu ravninu
i plameni urlik u podvodnu najdublju tišinu.
Stvarnost voćnog ploda, mesa i zemljinog soka.
Stvarnost metala, betona i suvih i golih utrina,
beli fosfor, neshvatljiv kao oštra brazgotina
na hrastu ili sok što kaplje iz voćnih oblina,
stvarnost kamena, vode ili peščanih dina.
Reality
Of what does it consist, of what is it made?
From pebbles, words, motion, waves, winter freeze,
sex, scents, or from images, pale and powerful images?
Of death, illness, love and a million other
important, less important, or unimportant things
and beings which like a loud scream come closer,
grow more distant, come closer, grow more distant?
Or, perhaps, from one huge breath
that penetrates everything though it’s hard to see?
We only have an inkling of it, perhaps we breathe it
while keeping tabs on night and day, the rain, the wind,
the snow, the light of the sun,
and nearly every terrifying or pleasant dream, dream, dream.
Like the drip of orange juice and the flight
of petals from the freshly picked poppy.
Reality surrounds us with its great wealth.
Shallow as a puddle, deep as an active volcano.
In the very eye, or in the squint of someone curious,
it flows and changes like a hill into the flat country
and a fiery howl in the underwater silence.
The reality of a fruit, meat and earth’s dampness.
The reality of metal, concrete, dry and naked meadows,
white phosphorus, incomprehensible like a sharp cut
on an oak tree, or the juice that oozes out of a round fruit,
the reality of stone, water and sand dunes.
Golubovi
Vidim ih gde sede na električnoj žici.
A crna žica rastegnuta je iznad ulice.
Dan je turoban, kišovit i nebo sivo.
Vidim ih pribijene jedno uz drugo.
Kiša im kvasi perje i tiho rominja.
Oni se jedva pokreću i svoje glave
ne okreću jedan prema drugom.
Da li ih spaja ljubav i greju li se?
Štite li se od hladnoće kišnih kapi?
Ne znam, samo primećujem tela
ovako pribijena jedno uz drugo.
Na toj crnoj i dosta debeloj žici
vidim dva siva ptičja stvorenja
uobličena u jedno jedino pitanje.
Kad sam opet napolje pogledao,
video sam praznu žicu sa koje su
oboje odjednom i naglo odleteli,
odlepršali, a ne znam kuda i zašto.
Two Pigeons
I watch them sitting on the electric wire
stretched black over our street.
It’s a gloomy day, rainy, the sky is gray.
I see them pressed to each other.
The rain softly falls and wets their feathers.
They barely move their heads,
and never look at each other.
Is it love or warmth that keeps them close?
Are they shielding each other from cold raindrops?
I’ve no idea, I only note
the closeness of their bodies
on that black, thick wire,
two gray feathery beings
joined into a single question.
When next I happen to look outside,
I see the wire is empty,
as if they both suddenly took off flapping their wings,
god knows where or why.