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Aug. 28th, 2013 03:35 pmTowards the Cancellation Оf Limbo by the Roman-Catholic Church
There is no difference at all, my Jenny:
while yours are stricken numb,
my folks are stricken
with grief; while you don't care,
I can't stop crying;
while you are twelve,
I'm three and seven months, -
but here we are, enjoying our apple:
all core and seeds, as dry and hard as rock,
yet sweeter then their custom-fitted masses
(while mine are Catholics,
yours folks are stupid).
This is the last day. We don't give a shit.
You'd think we would be praying, guessing, chanting,
confessing, shaking, counting our sins
or dying every minute, resurrected
next minute by another weightless rumor
about who will go where and when.
But you and I – we're sitting on a sill,
you're fidgeting, I'm clenching your white collar
in my unwashed, sweaty little fist
while trying not to fall off your plump knees,
and we are fumbling our cigarette,
and I'm exhaling smoke into the dent
left by a beam behind your rosy ear.
When you were shooting them (your mom and pa), -
when later you've ascended to the sill, -
when I was running where I knew I shouldn't, -
when Jack was going out without his sweater, -
when Luke was slowly walking towards the highway, -
when Anny was a smart-ass with her grandma, -
when Has was blowing up his heavy tote-bag, -
when Wang was creeping up on his step-brother, -
when Mike was opening the door to strangers, -
when Emily was playing with a lighter, -
when Bill was catching that unlucky kitten, -
we all could suddenly smell huckleberries:
you, me, Hasim, and Luke, and Wang, and Bill,
and Jack, and even Mike – imagine that! -
could sense the smell through all those bloody rags.
It was a truly outstanding moment
in the long history of huckleberries.
----
(some other self-translations)
There is no difference at all, my Jenny:
while yours are stricken numb,
my folks are stricken
with grief; while you don't care,
I can't stop crying;
while you are twelve,
I'm three and seven months, -
but here we are, enjoying our apple:
all core and seeds, as dry and hard as rock,
yet sweeter then their custom-fitted masses
(while mine are Catholics,
yours folks are stupid).
This is the last day. We don't give a shit.
You'd think we would be praying, guessing, chanting,
confessing, shaking, counting our sins
or dying every minute, resurrected
next minute by another weightless rumor
about who will go where and when.
But you and I – we're sitting on a sill,
you're fidgeting, I'm clenching your white collar
in my unwashed, sweaty little fist
while trying not to fall off your plump knees,
and we are fumbling our cigarette,
and I'm exhaling smoke into the dent
left by a beam behind your rosy ear.
When you were shooting them (your mom and pa), -
when later you've ascended to the sill, -
when I was running where I knew I shouldn't, -
when Jack was going out without his sweater, -
when Luke was slowly walking towards the highway, -
when Anny was a smart-ass with her grandma, -
when Has was blowing up his heavy tote-bag, -
when Wang was creeping up on his step-brother, -
when Mike was opening the door to strangers, -
when Emily was playing with a lighter, -
when Bill was catching that unlucky kitten, -
we all could suddenly smell huckleberries:
you, me, Hasim, and Luke, and Wang, and Bill,
and Jack, and even Mike – imagine that! -
could sense the smell through all those bloody rags.
It was a truly outstanding moment
in the long history of huckleberries.
----
(some other self-translations)
