Мојот гроб

Мојот гроб

 

Секој ден си го гледам гробот во дворот

вклучен во цената на куќата,

со дрвена штица над дупката,

со надгробен споменик од бел варовник,

со фотографија во златна рамка

и година на раѓање одвоена со цртичка

од празниот простор на смртта.

Стои гробот под крушата свртен кон куќата,

гледа во мене и кога сум му со грб свртена.

Напролет мачките му ја разлабавуваат штицата,

а врапчињата на дрвото ја валкаат за среќа,

лете по некоја презреана круша

му сронува парченце од споменикот,

наесен дождот му го истенчува ‘рбетот, му ја гризе ставата,

зиме снегот го забива во земјата.

На секој гром му е центар,

на секој земјотрес -  епицентар.

Се рони, се ништи, се распаѓа,

сè помал е, сè постутулен и попотклекнат,

пред очи ми го снемува гробот,

пропаѓа во сопствената дупка, од прав во прав се претвора.

Го гледам утрово, а од него останало само

купче варовник што го разнесува ветрот,

испокршени штички за птичји куќарки

и фотографијата во златна рамка

што се вее околу цртичката од - до.

Мојот гроб сè понаврапито исчезнува,

исто како и мојот живот. 

 

 

 

 

 

My Grave

 

My Grave

Every day I watch my grave in the yard

included in the price of the house,

with a board over the hole,

with a tombstone of white limestone,

with a photograph in a gold frame,

and the year of birth separated by a dash

from the empty space for death.

The grave is there under the pear tree facing the house

staring at me even when I have my back turned to it.

In spring the cats loosen the board, 

and sparrows in the tree shit on it for good luck,

in summer an occasional overripe pear

chips off a piece of the tombstone,

in autumn the rain thins its spine, bites its figure,

in winter the snow rams it deeper into the ground.

It’s the focal point of every thunderbolt,

of every earthquake the epicentre.

It crumbles, decays, decomposes,

it’s becoming ever smaller, more wizened, brought to its knees,

the grave is disappearing before my eyes,

it’s falling into its own hole, turning from dust to dust.

I look at it this morning, what’s left of it is no more 

than a small pile of limestone being scattered by the wind,

broken shards of board big enough to build nesting boxes,

and the photo in its gold frame

flutters around the from – to.

My grave is vanishing faster and faster,

just like my life.

 

Translation: Ljubica Arsovska & Peggy Reid

 

 

 

 

 

Mijn graf

 

Elke dag kijk ik naar mijn graf in de tuin

inbegrepen in de prijs van het huis,

met een houten plank boven de opening,

met een zerk van witte kalksteen,

met een foto in een gouden lijst

en het geboortejaar, door een streepje gescheiden

van het nog oningevulde jaar van overlijden.

Het graf ligt onder de perenboom, naar het huis gekeerd,

en kijkt me aan, ook als ik er met mijn rug naartoe sta.

In het voorjaar graven de katten de plank los,

en bevuilen de mussen in de boom hem naar hartelust,

in de zomer breekt een overrijpe peer

een stukje van de grafzerk,

in de herfst maakt de regen zijn rug smaller, knagend aan zijn lichaam,

in de winter duwt de sneeuw hem in de grond.

Van elke bliksem is het graf het centrum,

van elke aardbeving – het epicentrum.

Het zakt in, verliest zijn verband en valt uiteen,

wordt steeds kleiner, krimpt in elkaar en vervalt steeds meer,

het graf verdwijnt voor mijn ogen,

het zakt weg in zijn eigen opening, wordt van stof tot stof.

Ik kijk er vanmorgen naar en het enige wat er nog rest

is een stukje kalksteen, verwaaiend in de wind,

kleine stukjes hout, nog goed voor een vogelhuisje,

en de foto in een gouden lijst

die in de wind heen en weer beweegt bij het streepje tussen geboorte- en sterfjaar,

Mijn graf verdwijnt steeds sneller,

net als mijn leven.

 

Vertaling: Roel Schuyt

 

 

 

 

 

Moj grob

 

Vsak dan opazujem svoj grob na dvorišču,

vključen v ceno hiše,

z leseno desko nad jamo,

z nagrobnim spomenikom iz belega apnenca,

s fotografijo v zlatem okviru

in letnico rojstva, ki jo vezaj ločuje od

praznega prostora za  letnico smrti.

Grob obrnjen proti hiši stoji pod hruško,

gleda vame, tudi ko mu kažem hrbet.

Spomladi mačke razmajejo ploščo,

vrabci jo onesnažujejo za srečo,

poleti pa kakšna prezrela hruška

odkruši košček spomenika,

jeseni mu dež tanjša hrbet, razjeda postavo,

pozimi pa ga sneg potiska v zemljo.

Je center vsakega groma,

epicenter vsakega  potresa.

Kruši se, uničuje, razpada,

vse manjši postaja,

sploščen in sključen, grob izginja pred mojimi očmi,

pada v lastno jamo, se iz prahu vrača v prah.

Danes zjutraj zrem vanj, od njega so

ostali samo kup apnenca, ki ga raznaša veter,

polomljene deske za ptičje hišice

in fotografija v zlatem okviru,

ki plapola okrog vezaja od - do.

Moj grob naglo izginja

tako kot moje življenje.

 

Prevedel: Aleš Mustar

 

 

 

 

 

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