Sreten Perović: Iron rings
"Aux morts de la Commune 21-28 mai 1871" I arrive. Wrapped in bandages of fires and thorns history lightly wakes up with a smile. From here, through earthly dust and human dust the sparks mount from hand to eyes to voice. Each letter that steals away from the heart kindles itself into a warning. Graveyard of hopes grows into a dream, a cry, a salvation. The years here sit in an immaterial circle keeping the fires - security guards count the centuries. In walls, in stones, in a friend wearied out long ago tameless processions search for the priceless message. I thank the history of today and that of long ago. To the fairy tale I return: late at midnight, in the seething hours while on Pigalle naked bodies bathe in the lamplight and the dark-skinned pays for his dark legends I read painful warnings on the wall. In the ivy two iron rings stand on the palm of the wall: Do kiss the hungry stone open the crisp embrace. Again by my ear history sings the rhythm of the distant battles. ILLUSION I look at the river: the water licks the hot stones and emits smoke. Across the weathered pebbles and clouds the shadow of a naked bather is followed by a whistle. The unreal image doubles and the steps in the dense sunlight are carried by darker tones I want to recognize that face before it wanes in concentric circles. But the river evades noon and bends behind the hillock. REQUIEM There behind seven hills around the tower mine and yours glow hackberry and white pomegranate. I climb to the shores of the ancient lawn and inhale the distance: it does not dwell in the step of the bird it does not dwell in the ashes of the yellowed eye. I put my fingers into other people's business: The past is sweating all over. Right there on the left under the first hill winds a path once trod by the ancestors on their way down to the roots of the temple to the holly. Where they fell asleep forever. Hackberry and wild pomegranate grow around my tower. And rocks enkindle into wolves Blackberries utter their prayers. The Sun scatters crevices across the Earth's forehead and the birds drink rainwater like snakes. I watch from the brink of the ancient field: history takes off its sheepskin coat it crosses the river Sitnica at the hour when the fish spawn dark from gunpowder and hunger it enters the town. I wave to it Seeing it off to the treasuries and praying for its sleep. My eye craves for the music of birds and plants In the tower round the hearth the stories grow. A DISTANT NIGHT IN THE FIELD Slowly, the voice of the prophet comes out of me: grab all the dead by their necks one by one and throw them to the wind - and then to the distance, to the distance. I fear the voice that bites those dark-blue hours of my solitude. The snow heartens me up with its laughter. I do not dream. And then it falls silent too and the wind Hurls me up under the shoulder of the cloud. I get up and with my step I wake the sweaty stone up. All the things are calling, stubbornly heading for eternity. Then I stop: the odorous wave is pushing the tide towards me (oh hills how can I unsheathe my sword?) And the night comes tame as a two-edged knife bearing the blood of the centuries upon its blade. And then slowly the voice of the prophet is entering me: I bow to my knees and swear at God lovingly. I bring mother's curse to my lips. The ship is and the night flows askance while the waves chase each other in my hair. A distant night in the field, in the pre-history of senses under the arid wolves' tents it settles itself in eyesight but my nails slowly towards the prophet on the wall move and light the fires. Everything is silent - I cannot hear silence among my fingers. THE PRAYER Forgotten in the moonlight my mother is checking her dreams about meeting with you. She does not open silver caskets so as not to run ahead not to do harm to the children that with tired eyes flew into their dreams. She stands with her arms crossed begging the night not to give her away. And when in a leaf from the field she sees her already grown-up substitute a painful song begins, sung by the thought that will never by anyone be understood completely. She knows that her words do not go in the wind and that there is someone who prepared the swaddles for her deep wounds. I throw the waves apart I wake up and come closer to her but she can't feel anything except a huge mountain from which the birds never migrate. I am discerning a modest prayer: I brought up your sons and found homes for your daughters now it's time for me to cross the creek and reach you. I fear that my shadow could wake her up for good. In this way, forgotten in the moonlight she remains in the field alone walking her half-words from one star to another. PASTORAL You are dead like my seeds scattered in the wind whose origin we could not unravel You are dead for the dewdrops in the weary autumn sun while it shyly recedes down forgotten pathways. How come then that I meet you in each little cloud that I kiss you in the thick puddle? How come that I am nearing the nonexistent voice in my nightly return home which seemingly exists? How come that this serene light shines upon me on the path? I have invented many stories which I could tell you humbly passing by. Your soul would open like a ripe chestnut in its flight from the branch to the earth. Then the wish would be renounced anew that the paths do not run into footings where the big dream sleeps. You are dead like my seeds scattered in the wind whose origin we could not unravel. Our children are entering the golden bagpipes the peaceful constellations that have never caught cold that have never poured anger onto their faces that have never sat upon their parents' fiery wings. I had lakes and garden like so many other beings the town in which muscular flowers grew you had your long fruitful silence we had inescapable sins and escapable crying we had the enormous treasure of the air in our hands and heaven. What should we do now while the river is mightily flooding our memories upon the grassy hill on the tower of history upon the removal of the city? Dream your dead dream about golden telltales about my not too rude hand, about buoyant summer on the isles lurking under the living sound of memories. DEFENSE I have killed a bird and now I sing a song to her so as to put her asleep completely. She can still hear my words coming from afar she is leaving her wings between blood and the sun furtively watching the poplar which grows itself into salty smoke. I have killed a bird. Look it's a new beginning. The two of us listen to the same voices coming from the depth like defense and encouragement. I SMELL VINEYARDS And about my mother I cannot say anything. She used to bring me milk in her arms and all of a sudden she silently grew into a stone while the wind was dragging me beyond the hill. Then she fell into wormwood entirely Swearing by blood and by God: nothing under heaven can be melted down. I know: she went on with her speech by the river never finding a shoulder for her sorrow so irresistible, she fell asleep forever. There is nothing I can tell you about her now. I crawl over the earth and smell vineyards. Somewhat blinded I reach for the river: but there is nothing! It melted into tears. Says the wind. FISHNETS Golden shadows from the tissue of my dream Are you really there even in the broken pomegranate upon the autumn path with mouldered leaves. In the nettle weed, in the lonely wind, in the sun born anew, they go by your mute sound. Wild geese whistle on snowed fences. You are not on the cloud. And the clouds are coming lavishly and languidly like evil in distress. The barges are coming under willow branches dragging fishnets bordered by fireflies. A PERFORMANCE Hallowed be thy name thou fruitful lamp on the surface of the bitter sea. The time comes in sharp chains to put life through smoke and bring it back to cobweb Hallowed be thy name thou who moved the bush and made it grow into marble. The night is trembling above your frozen hands with the stars that chase each other fading out along the way Hallowed be thy name thou noon of Gothic for all the prayers that never visited our lips. And the secret never changed for a tiny drop from the cell of the young sun to the ossified high tide. Hallowed Hallowed be thy name Thou bullwhip in the nest. Everywhere around the bones are twinkling and the pursuers bear their horrific burden. Translated by: Zoran Paunović |
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