domingo, 4 de julho de 2010

Poem of the day: About Death and Other Things

About Death and Other Things

by Aleksandar Ristovic
translated by Charles Simic

How strange will be my death, of which I've been thinking since childhood:
A sedentary old man leaving a small-town library
leans to one side and eventually collapses on the lawn.

I've every reason to believe that I'll experience what the others have
while I climb the stairs carrying my supper in a plastic bag,
not even turning to look at the one who in that moment descends curly-haired
and wearing a party dress.

It could be an ordinary death on a train:
a man who carefully studies the fields and hills in snow,
shuts his eyes folds his hands in his lap, and no longer sees what only
a moment ago he admired.

I'm trying to remember other possibilities and so, here I am once again,
disguised as myself in a small, merry company,
where, after emptying my glass, I fall on the floor laughing, and pulling after
me the tablecloth with the vase full of roses.

My death, of course, would have a spiritual meaning
in some mountain sanatorium for the insane
where croaking we complain to each other in beds with freshly changed sheets.

It could happen that I'll die in some way very different from the one I
in the company of my wife and daughter, surrounded by books,
while outside a neighbor is trying to start a car that the night has surprised
with snow.

1 comentário:

  1. A whole race doomed to paradoxal existence. Fighting to be better, fighting to be happyer, struggling to overcome all the splinters stucked underneath my nails. Just let them stay. I'll be inside of one for the rest of my days anyway... where the moist, the dirt and loneliness wiil never leave me alone. Well my friends, my campaign doesn't worth a dime, cause I'll be next to her for the rest of my days. So why not went near her right away? Yeah, why won't i run to her arms? Delivering myself to my rotten fate. We are much less than we think we are. We gasp for air while inside our stupid little lie, called life. In Death, the sun don't shine, and the moon don't move.

    Forever yours, McDeath.