Charles Simic
inglês
EVERGREEN
Dosta mi je usamljenih žena.
Tužnih. Ucveljenih. Napuštenih.
Čije duše plutaju
Kao boce s porukom bačene u more.
Dosta mi je narikača.
Dosta saučesnica, družbenica, sestara.
Usedelica i udavača. Večnih udovica,
Čija srca cure i kaplju
Poput pokvarenih slavina.
Dosta mi je tog pogrebnog marša.
Nemam više ništa s vama.
Dosta mi je majčica skočica
I vernih ljuba oborenog pogleda –
Čuvarkuća lanjskih snegova i rajskih vrtova.
Dosta mi je vaših spomenara i herbarijuma,
Ispresovanih himena i ispeglanih bora.
Dosta, vaših zamrznutih talenata
Što se krčkaju u loncu Njegovog omiljenog jela.
Vaše crne džigerice i pohovanog mozga.
Vaših praznih kreveta i uglancanog parketa
Po kome klizi mesečina
Umesto šekspirovske životinje s dvoje leđa
Nemam ništa s vama.
Dosta mi je vaših otežalih zadnjica,
Podvaljaka, podočnjaka, pobačaja.
Vaših dijeta, depilacija, ondulacija.
Vaših dekoltea, visokih potpetica,
Šliceva, i ostalih udica.
Dosta mi je te nožice ispod stola,
Tog pogleda ispod oka.
Licitiranja i rasprodaja:
Ko-će-kome, Ko-će-koga.
Dosta mi je vaših aperitiva i deserta
Mladih stršljenova i bezopasnih bumbara –
Vaših slatkih otrova.
Na smrt voljenih i ljubavi do kraja života.
Vašeg Sedmog neba što seže
Do vrhova Njegovih cipela. Vaših
Vitlejemskih jasli – Njegovog međunožja.
Dosta mi je vašeg „Po željama slušalica“.
Vaše never more stara je pesma,
Evergreen vaših kasnih proleća.
Sve bi dale za jednog muškarca
U liku bespomoćnog boga,
Vi Adamova rebarca.
Nemam ništa s vama.
Igračica bih da sam na trapezu,
Hodačica po žici, ukrotiteljica lavova.
Kroz obruč vatre bih da skočim
U svako grlo ili srce,
Da bih se ponovo rodila u porođajnim bolovima.
Sve bih isto, a sve drukčije.
I njegovu bih ljubljenu glavu
Na mom trbuhu – Salominom pladnju.
Produção de áudio: Drugi program Radio Beograda / PEN centar Srbije
EVERGREEN
I've had enough of lonely women.
Sad. Miserable. Abandoned women
Whose souls float like bottles
Thrown in the sea with a message.
Enough of professional mourners.
Enough of companions, sisters, dispensers of condolences.
Old maids and marrying types,
Eternal widows whose hearts leak and drip
Like rusty faucets.
Enough of that funeral march.
I don't want anything more to do with you.
Enough of Mother Hubbards
And faithful wives with their eyes lowered—
The guardians of last year's snows and Gardens of Eden.
Enough of your herbariums and picture albums,
Dried up beavers and ironed-out wrinkles.
Enough of your frozen talents
Simmering with His favorite dish in a pot.
Your black liver and fried brains.
Your empty beds and waxed floors
Over which moonlight slides
Instead of Shakespeare's beast with two backs.
I have nothing in common with you.
Enough of your big asses,
Double chins, circles under the eyes, abortions,
Diets, depilations, hairdos,
Low-cut dresses, high heels.
Enough of playing footsie under the table,
The meaningful look under the eye,
Auctions and bargain sales:
Who-will-do-what-to-whom.
Enough of you aperitifs and desserts.
Young studs and sugar daddies.
Your sweet poisons,
Loved to death till death do us part,
Your Seventh Heaven that rests
On the tip of His shoes.
Your Holy Mangers in the crotch of His legs.
Enough of your: "Our listeners request."
Your "nevermore" is an old song,
Evergreen of your late springs.
You'd give anything for a man
In the image of a helpless god,
Adam's rib.
I don't want anything more to do with you.
I'd like to be dancing on a trapeze,
Walking on high wire, taming lions.
Through a fiery hoop I'd jump
Into everyone's throat or heart,
So I can be born again in labor pains.
I'd do everything the same way and everything differently
With his beloved head on my belly—
As on Salome's plate.