Blesok no. 103-104, December, 2015
Translated by: Elizabeta Bakovska
White smoke comes
from the chimney of a house
high buildings around
the hill is covered with fog
and the fog shimmers
Everything seems frozen
only the smoke is alive
Why do so many people
die in January?
I Don’t Feel Like Talking
My words have left me like animals
running away from a forest fire
or convicts who have suddenly
That is how they flew away.
Now, my headache and I
are the only ones at home
and we do some cleaning.
The good thing about this is
that my head is empty
and I have no thoughts,
heavy ones or others.
It is the only heavy thing.
I don’t feel like talking,
I feel like being silent.
What Can We Do?
The bigger the animal
the bigger its heart:
the elephants are monogamous, the whales too.
The big animals are capable
of bigger love,
some birds too.
I wish we were a he-whale and a she-whale
swimming by each other’s side
in the depths,
sleeping in a big underwater cave
and there would be no need to cover up,
and our loins would not get cold
(who has ever seen a whale with loins).
What can we do?
It’s raining outside, young is the night,
bundled up in blankets
longing for a meaning
we do not renounce
we have to think of something
before we fall asleep.
For those who wake up,
tomorrow is a new day.
A hardworking, big new day.
In these times of e-mails
I’ve written you a letter. I found it
couple of days ago. I’d written it
and I forgot about it. The letter was
never sent, and yet I expected
an answer. In these times when
just like everybody,
I only check my e-mails,
some time ago, I wrote a letter.
It’s not a suicide note,
nor a diary confession, it’s not a love letter.
It’s a conversation with my destiny, with myself,
a message to contemplation, to the future,
it’s unclear, overloaded and unreadable
to anybody else. I can’t write well
about important things.
I’ve already forgotten what I wrote in it.
I’d crumbled it, but I didn’t throw it away, I
straightened it again and put it somewhere, so
it surprises me again on some future day, when
I rumble around my drawers and shelves.
Maybe then I will find out that my wishes
for peace, joy and meaning expressed there
have already come true, or that in time
they’ve become meaningless. I remember
my handwriting, but not the words. The letters
are readable and elongated. There are moods
when one throws out old things, and the opposite
when I’m sorry to throw them. They pile up
in the cellars, attics and in my subconsciousness.
There the past is being reexamined.
It’s Not Up to Me
Sometimes I have a feeling in my chest
as if somebody has squeezed my heart
and keeps it like that. I don’t know, if he
will ever have the mercy to let it go. It’s not up to me.
I’ve held a bird in my hand and this feels the same.
Freedom is not the absence of obstacles
to get the things that we want
but a feeling of lightness and spaciousness
inside oneself. Some people call it happiness.
Our heart is healthy only when we don’t feel it.
Our body is healthy only when we don’t feel it:
the arms, the legs, the head, the body.
The pain is the awareness about our corporal existence.
There are days when one lives
and days when what’s been lived is being told.
Beauty Will Save the World
The day was nothing special, a usual rainy day
I didn’t know I would be scared to fall asleep that evening
because sometimes I die in my dreams
I’ve died in my own dreams and in the dreams of the others
and it wouldn’t have been the first time.
Does every man have a death of his own, the one and only,
as every man has a life of his own?
Or is death only one and the same for every man,
and it takes us one after another, when our turn comes?
I don’t know, but one thing is certain,
when I find out, it will be too late
and I won’t be able to tell anybody.
None of the living.
I want it to take me by the hand and cross me over
painlessly and softly, so it happens just like that…
that I’m gone from this world, from these lies, from this noise
that I find harder and harder to sustain. I am a weak man,
a nobody. But I won’t succumb. As long as my heart beats
I will keep on pushing. A stone, or something, I’ll push it.
I have to reach some place.
I, as everybody else.
For the last 20 years I’ve been living
like a loose bolt.
It might not be like that, but
that’s how I see things today.
I need somebody to cut me
so I move forward.
I can help somebody else,
but I can’t help myself. Just as I
can’t see myself, except
in the mirror or on a photo.
Or in the eyes of somebody else.
The space, partially explored,
has remained still a great secret. The universe too,
and the composition of the atom. There are
so many things that I will never
explore, not that they are unimportant,
I simply have no interest in them. And no need.
This undoubtedly means that I’ve grown old.
Cutting new ridges in the bolt
is so much like longing for rejuvenation,
to be a kid again and have every moment unique.
The life. The circle of life.
Free speech is such a fabrication,
in a world with so many limitations. A triangle
written in the circle. An existence,
a unique beginning of the endlessness…
Time is a bigger fabrication
than free choice.
A circle written in the triangle.