注册 登录  
 加关注
   显示下一条  |  关闭
温馨提示!由于新浪微博认证机制调整,您的新浪微博帐号绑定已过期,请重新绑定!立即重新绑定新浪微博》  |  关闭

My Sovereignty

自由的精神就是对自己是否正确不是很有把握的精神。——哈耶克

 
 
 

日志

 
 

Nikola Madzirov  

2017-04-29 17:30:54|  分类: 默认分类 |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

  下载LOFTER 我的照片书  |

WHAT WE HAVE SAID HAUNTS US
 
We’ve given names
to the wild plants
behind unfinished buildings,
given names to all the monuments
of our invaders.
We’ve christened our children
with affectionate nicknames
taken from letters
read only once.
 
Afterwards in secret we’ve interpreted
signatures at the foot of prescriptions
for incurable diseases,
with binoculars we’ve zoomed in
on hands waving farewell
at windows.
 
We’ve left words
under stones with buried shadows,
on the hill that guards the echo
of the ancestors whose names are not
in the family tree.
 
What we have said without witnesses
will long haunt us.
 
The winters have piled up in us
without ever being mentioned.
 
  
THE CROSS OF HISTORY
 
I dissolved in the crystals of undiscovered stones,
I live among the cities, invisible
as the air between slices of bread.
I’m contained in the rust
on the edges of the anchors.
In the whirlwind I am a child
beginning to believe in living gods.
I’m the equivalent of the migrant birds
that are always returning, never departing.
I want to exist among the continuous verbs,
in the roots that sleep
among the foundations of the first houses.
In death I want to be
a soldier of undiscovered innocence,
crucified by history
on a glass cross through which
in the distance flowers can be seen.
 
  
USUAL SUMMER NIGHTFALL
 
1.
 
This is what summer nightfall is like:
the adulteress comes onto the balcony
in a silk nightgown that lets through
the trembling of the stars,
a twig drops from the beak of a bird
that falls asleep before it has built its home,
a soldier lowers the flag of the state
with a letter from his mother in his pocket
and atomic tests in the womb of the earth
secretly revive the dead. At that moment someone
quietly interprets Byzantine neumes,
someone else falsifies the exoduses
of the Balkan and the civil wars
in the name of universal truths.
In the factory yards
the statues of participants
in annulled revolutions sleep,
on the symmetrical graves
plastic flowers lose their colour
and ordinary ones their shape,
but this peace of the dead
we have parted from
is not ours.
 
2.
 
In the village with three lit windows
a fortune-teller foresees only
recoveries, and not illnesses.
The waves throw up bottles enough
to hold the whole sea,
the arrow on the one-way road sign
points to God,
a fisherman rips off a bit of the sky
as he casts his baited line into the river,
some poor child searches for the Little Bear
and the planet he’d like to come from,
in front of the doorstep of the killer with an alibi
a feather attempts to fly.
This is what usual summer nightfall is like.
The town combusts in the redness of the moon
and the fire brigade ladders seem
to lead to heaven, even then when
everyone
is climbing
down
them.
 
PERFECTION IS BORN
 
I want someone to tell me
about the messages in the water in our bodies,
about yesterday’s air
in telephone booths,
about flights postponed because of
poor visibility, despite
all the invisible angels on the calendars.
The fan that weeps for tropical winds,
the incense that smells best
as it vanishes – I want someone to tell me about these things.
I believe that when perfection is born
all forms and truths
crack like eggshells.
 
Only the sigh of gentle partings
can tear a cobweb apart
and the perfection of imagined lands
can postpone the secret
migration of souls.
 
And what can I do with my imperfect body:
I go and I return, go and return
like a plastic sandal on the waves
by the shore.

 
REVEALING
 
I haven't belonged to anyone for ages
like a coin fallen from the edge of an old icon. *
I am scattered among the strict inheritances and vows
behind the blinds of drawn destinies.
History is the first border I have to cross,
I wait for the voice set apart from the harmony of obedience
that will report how distant I am.
I am like a bronze statue under the city square of stars
above which birds practice their anthems of hope;
I reveal myself like a feather stuck to an eggshell,
which tells of a premature departure and
heralds new life.
Every day my home
secretly changes under the world's tent,
only childhood is like honey
that never lets anything leave a trace in it.
 
 
THE ONE WHO WRITES
 
You write. About the things that already exist.
And they say you fantasize.
 
You keep quiet. Like the sunken nets
of poachers. Like an angel
who knows what the night may bring.
 
And you travel. You forget,
so that you can come back.
 
You write and you don't want to remember
the stone, the sea, the believers
sleeping with their hands apart. 
 
 
Before We were Born
 
The streets were asphalted
before we were born and all
the constellations were already formed.
The leaves were rotting
on the edge of the pavement,
the silver was tarnishing
on the workers’ skin,
someone’s bones were growing through
the length of the sleep.
 
Europe was uniting
before we were born and
a woman’s hair was spreading
calmly over the surface
of the sea.
 
 
NEW LANDS
 
One should scrape the wall
over which dampness has drawn
a map of the new world
and new separations should be applied.
 
Beneath them, the stones should be
rearranged haphazardly, like
the footprints of a man running from his fears.
 
One should be
a round mirror in a half-open palm
and reflect others' embraces
as sharp as scissor blades which touch each other
only when there's something to be cut.
 
New lands should be invented,
so one can walk on water once again.
 
  
 
FAST IS THE CENTURY
 
Fast is the century. If I were wind
I would have peeled the bark off the trees
and the facades off the buildings in the outskirts.
 
If I were gold, I would have been hidden in cellars,
into crumbly earth and among broken toys,
I would have been forgotten by the fathers,
and their sons would remember me forever.
 
If I were a dog, I wouldn't have been afraid of
refugees, if I were a moon
I wouldn't have been scared of executions.
 
If I wеre a wall clock
I would have covered the cracks on the wall.
 
Fast is the century. We survive the weak earthquakes
watching towards the sky, yet not towards the ground.
We open the windows to let in the air
of the places we have never been.
Wars don't exist,
since someone wounds our heart every day.
Fast is the century.
Faster than the word.
If I were dead, everyone would have believed me
when I kept silent.
  评论这张
 
阅读(36)| 评论(0)
推荐

历史上的今天

在LOFTER的更多文章

评论

<#--最新日志,群博日志--> <#--推荐日志--> <#--引用记录--> <#--博主推荐--> <#--随机阅读--> <#--首页推荐--> <#--历史上的今天--> <#--被推荐日志--> <#--上一篇,下一篇--> <#-- 热度 --> <#-- 网易新闻广告 --> <#--右边模块结构--> <#--评论模块结构--> <#--引用模块结构--> <#--博主发起的投票-->
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

页脚

网易公司版权所有 ©1997-2017