Ece Attila 

Übersetzer:in

your letter is larger and lighter
than the thought of a flower when the dream
is a garden—
 
as your letter opens
there's an unfolding of sky, word from outside,
wide spaces
 
I slept in green pastures,
I lay on the cusp of the valley of the shadow of death
during the last watch of the night
listening to those condemned to die
being led through tunnels in the earth,
 
how they sing
with the breath at their lips
as residents at the point of leaving
a city in flames, how they sing,
their breaths like shackles,
 
how they sing—
they who are about to jump from light into darkness,
they who will be posted to no destination—
terror fills me at the desecration
 
the table before me in the presence of my enemies
is bare, I have ash on my head,
my cup is empty
 
and I fled to your letter to read
of the orange tree decked out in white blossoms
opening with the sun,
 
I could smell it on the balcony—
I can smell you
lovelier and lighter than the thought of a flower
in this dismal night
 
I will be suspended from the sky of your words—
grant that I may dwell in your letter
all the days of my life
 
envoi
your letter is wonderful, larger and lighter
than the thought of a flower when the dream
is the earth of a garden—
 
as your letter opens
there's an unfolding of sky, word from outside,
memory

When he moved in
I had never expected him to stay
I believed he had read the desperation painted in my eyes
That erupted like volcanoes from deep within me
He felt the need to, maybe just a little adventure
Yet some of his close friends assured me that he would stay
This season felt different to them
He would linger on like sweet scent of burning essence
They told me of his previous attempts of freeing himself from being mama’s
boy
But this time proved unique


The idea of him staying was dew which disappears without a trace
My people behaved funny
He never got around understanding them
Patience was far from his doors
In the mornings in his tranquil moments of deep thoughts and silence
My people annoyed him by their laughter, praises and chants

In those instances when he would have loved to be left alone
My people’s toddlers bustled and bundled themselves, clinging on him
In their ragged, filthy, scruffy clothes
With mucus running down their nose into their mouths

My people were not learned like him
Neither did they read huge books
They were simple, he was complicated
They had no worries, he had projects and deadlines
They chewed their pride, his ego could not be joked with
They were older, he was young
They were not civilised and were far from being sophisticated

One morning having had enough
I still in my sleep
He packed everything of his
Asked me if I wanted to keep some things
He handed me all the bills he had settled whilst i was away
He explained changes I had to deal with immediately


I asked him why run away
My people were liars; they had insulted him and called him names
I gave him a lecture, which I regret because he wasn’t my student
I took side and stood for my people, who are commoners
My grandmother who raised me was a commoner so i have got little understanding
of my people
He wasn’t a bad young man, not at all
He said it wasn’t because of me but of my people
So he moved out
And we didn’t kiss goodbye

I don’t know you, you don’t know me,
but if we want to carry on we need
to make like mountaineers who tie themselves
together to survive their clunt and grapple
up jagged peaks that shoot through clouds
into the shocked and haloed air.
If the weakest slows, the strongest grows
responsible, much like when you were born:
hot and bothered, you heard bad bongos
and withdrew your raw body from the verge;
so they took up the slack as you dandled
at the wrong end of your string, puffing
and wedging and pulling you back
to teeter and totter on this edge.

In the metallic light
the pavements
were rivers of blood
flooding the gutters
this hot, transparent liquid
made of silk
live, breathing on the stone
trying to defend itself
from the invisible killers
that were watching
watching this magnificence
this red flowering
shrinking, freezing
vanishing into the ground.

In the darkened room
a woman
cannot find her reflection in the mirror

waiting as usual
at the edge of sleep

In her hands she holds
the oil lamp
whose drunken yellow flames
know where her lonely body hides