Michael M. Naydan 

Translator

Maybe he was born an eavesdropper of phone conversations
He drank and listened
He understood the mechanism
He felt the telephone cords become involuntary witnesses of the quivering voices
It’s not for nothing sometimes that small children tie them below their waist
Imagining they are little devils with tails
Yes, there’s something in this, children don’t know
These cords before they had been cut off from receivers
Were stuffed inside with human interactions
That later oozed through the holes on both of their sides
And poured into the sounds ringing on their belts
That girded them at Malanka celebrations
These sounds were like the sound
of an old telephone ringing.
Later that eavesdropper had his windows smashed
Now he just drank and listened
To the wind ringing patterns of the window pane
So that he didn’t hear
What echoed in answer.

The movement of a door like a man asleep moaning.
In absolute quiet I restlessly waited
till the door closed, then
the higher timbre of the moan flowed into a more bassy moan.
I imagined a man who used to play hide and seek in childhood
hiding behind the inconspicuous door
somewhere in a dark corner of the apartment.
I was surprised why he couldn’t be found for so long.
No one ever looked into that corner, and the man fell asleep,
and over time just grew into the door, and now
you can hear his moans.
You open it – and his moan is delicate, joyful,
as though he sees the door open and is free,
but when it’s closed again –
in a bass voice the man moans like a captive,
as though for the last time,
and I, unable to endure it, shout out,
sir, eternal doorman who has grown into the door!
Awaken, I don’t want to play blind man’s bluff,
or knock, or scream to anyone about your appearance,
but I’ve found you, sir,
everyone has abandoned you, but I’ve found you.
Awaken, I’ve come
to unmortar you from the door
and  to lubricate it
with my own voice.