Engels

I can say with certainty,

that the only man who could love me without forcing himself,

is Friedrich Engels.

 

There is a silent treaty among subordinates;

that at all times of the day,

without obligation,

and without a shutterbug, who would cram that moment into eternity,

they can place their heads into each other’s lap,

and summon comfort.

 

I go to the bathroom,

to fix my hair and smudged mascara.

I bump into a flock escaped from history text-books.

They drift in a long line along the narrow hallway.

They jostle past each other,

as if there was revelation at the end, or at least some blueberry pie.

 

I feel uncomfortable,

when Robespierre grabs my collar and pushes me up against the wall,

so my feet dangle ten centimeters above the ground.

Angry lad.

So much blood spilled for freedom of speech, and now we’re all silent.

Nobody feels a sense of calling.

We’re making out with other losers in corners. 

Nobody wants to lay out a plan for a better tomorrow.

There is no überman

that would suddenly appear and save the day.

 

I feel sorry for Robespierre.

His essay against capital punishment was good.

I move along his face with the edge of my palm.

He is not beautiful and he was wrong many times.

Yet I am full of compassion, when he stands before me so upset.

We are equal before law,

but he needs explaining,

that equality, as all on Earth,

has its limit, one that is thin and hardly visible.

He can’t take me with him.

I go back to Friedrich –

there is nothing great about him.

I seek refuge in his kind subordination,

as orthodox Jews seek refuge in the shadow of His wings.

© translated by Jasmin B. Frelih

Engels

Z gotovostjo lahko rečem,

Da je edini moški, ki bi me lahko ljubil, ne da bi se silil s tem,

Friedrich Engels.

 

Med drugouvrščenimi obstaja tihi dogovor,

Da lahko drug drugemu ob vseh trenutkih dneva

Brez obveze

In brez fotografa, ki bi trenutek tlačil v večnost,

Položijo glavo v naročje

In zahtevajo toplino.

 

Na stranišče grem,

Da bi si popravila frizuro in razmazano maskaro.

Zaletim se v trop pobeglih iz zgodovinskih učbenikov.

V dolgi vrsti jih nese po ozkem hodniku.

Drenjajo se drug mimo drugega,

Kot bi jih na koncu čakalo razodetje ali vsaj borovničeva pita.

 

Neprijetno mi je,

Ko me Robespierre prime za ovratnik in me dvigne ob steni,

Da z nogami bingljam deset centimetrov nad tlemi.

Jezen fant.

Toliko krvi za svobodo govora, in zdaj smo vsi tiho.

Nihče se ne čuti poklicanega.

Po kotih se mečkamo z drugimi zgubami.

Nihče ne bi predlagal svojega načrta za boljši jutri.

Nobenega nadčloveka ni nikjer,

Ki bi se iznenada pojavil in rešil stvar.

 

Žal mi je za Robespierra.

Tisti njegov spis proti smrtni kazni je bil dober.

Z robom dlani grem ob njegovem obrazu.

Ni lep in velikokrat se je zmotil.

Vendar sem polna sočutja, ko tako razburjen stoji pred mano.

Pred zakonom sva enaka,

A treba mu bo razložiti,

Da ima enakost, kot vse na svetu,

Nekje svojo mejo, ki je tenka in komaj vidna.

Ne more me vzeti s sabo.

Vračam k Friedrichu ‒

Nič velikega ni na njem.

Zatekam se k njegovi dobrotljivi drugorazrednosti,

Kot se pravoverni Judje zatekajo v senco Njegovih peruti.

© Katja Perat, Najboljši so padli (Študentska založba, 2011)