№ 28

znam da je jablan pod tvojim prozorom 

već propupio 

pustio mlade listiće 

da su magnolije i lale 

prekoputa 

procvetale 

ipak 

u širokom luku obilazim tvoju ulicu 

i ne znam zašto 

setim se onog divnog zaveta 

izrečenog nekad davno, davno

„ moje će telo čekati na tvoje ispod nekog kamena“ 

gde 

kroz koje su to bušne džepove 

nepovratno poispadala 

ona jutra 

i tmurna 

i topla 

svakakva 

naše večeri 

uz čašu vina 

tihu muziku 

i međusobne poglede 

s malo sunca u očima 

one noći 

kad sam potpuno smiren 

staložen 

ležao šćućuren uz tebe 

s druge strane 

istina je 

još uvek mi uspeva 

da vratim osmeh na lice 

ponekoj ženi 

da povremeno neka od njih 

čak dođe 

sve do mog predgrađa 

samo da bi mi dala čokoladu 

donela kolač od voća 

bocu vina 

ili neku novu knjigu 

popila šolju čaja 

ili kakvog drugog pića 

„život ide dalje“ 

kažu pametni ljudi 

ali 

bojim se 

ove slike 

što se vrte po čitavu noć 

čitav dan 

ovu rupu u mojoj utrobi 

ovu prazninu 

neće izlečiti ni vreme 

ni savremena medicina 

znam ja 

mnogo toga smo i propustili 

namerno ili nehotice 

da učinimo 

jedno za drugo 

znam to, znam... 

rominja neka sitna 

prolećna 

kližem se niz lorkinu ulicu 

(trebalo je davno da kupim nove cipele, očigledno) 

dolazim doma 

hranim kornjaču 

sedam u fotelju 

strogo vodeći računa 

da ne posmatram onaj ugao sobe 

u kojem je stajao tvoj pribor za slikanje 

štafelaj 

platna 

boje 

kistovi 

i slično 

na stočiću pokraj mene 

boca 

čaša 

jutrošnja nepopijena kafa 

i vaza sa onim čudnim žutim cvećem 

kojem nikako da zapamtim ime 

i koje sam sinoć 

(evo, stidim se) 

ukrao za sebe 

u parkiću 

prekoputa 

pušim cigaretu 

gledajući u neodređenom smeru 

I know that the poplar beneath your window

is shooting

young leaves

and that the magnolias and tulips

across the road

are in blossom

yet I give your street

a wide berth

as, gods knows why,

I remember the beautiful vow

we made long ago:

“my body will wait for yours

under a rock somewhere”—

by what accident

through which torn pockets

did we ever lose

those mornings

the grey ones

the warm ones

mornings of every kind

those evenings

spent to a glass of wine

quiet music

and glances exchanged

through sunlit eyes

those nights

in which I was

calm, quiet,

curled up next to you

on the other hand

the rumors are true

I still manage

to bring a smile to a woman’s face

every now and then

and some of them even venture

to my distant suburb

for no other reason

but to bring me chocolate

fruit cake

a bottle of wine

a new book

to have a cup of tea

or a different drink

”life goes on”

say the wise

but I suspect that

those pictures

which spin around me all night

and all day

that hole in my guts

that void in my heart

will not be mended by time

or modern medicine

I know

we have wasted much

deliberately or accidentally

much that we could have done

for each other instead

I know, I know

under a

vernal

drizzle

I slide down Lorca street

(it is quite clear that new shoes are

long overdue)

I arrive home

feed the turtle

sit in the armchair

taking strict care not to

look at the corner of the room

where your painting gear used to stand

your easel

canvasses

paints

brushes

and things

on the table next to me are

a bottle

a glass

coffee untouched since this morning

and a vase

with those weird little yellow flowers

I can never remember the name of

which (OK, I’m ashamed)

I stole for myself last night

from the little park

across the road

I light my cigarette

gaze at nothing in particular

and let the yellow petals

quietly shed on my shoulder 

(translated by Lilith Adams)