On the other side of the kitchen window pane we are fed by the early autumn. We dive deep down to its bottom resurfacing with plums, apples, grapes, removing the sweet remainders of summer from the crevices of time. On this side of the window pane we count the surfaced objects categorising them and placing them in wicker-baskets, surrendering ourselves to the calm pleasures of autumn knowing that things are in place and that all the numbers fit. On the other side of the window pane the murmur of the first rain quenches the dry August blaze. In the introductory exercise of the autumn alchemy rain turns the ground into mud. The fat sun lazily cools itself down in the scattered puddles and mothers allow their children to frolic cheerfully in it. It is early autumn and the abyss is still not lurking from the water's depths. Young swallows on the window sill refuse to abandon their nest not believing the stories of the elder how the days are already rolling down into the soundless chasm of winter. On the other side of the window pane the forest is warm and welcoming like sadness in poetry of the Pannonian poets dreaming of Poland. We wander about it from morn till eve. The earth is squeezing out the last clots of summer from its blood and we collect them: those truffles and chestnuts. We are helping nature to embrace winter already dead and scavenged. On this side of the window pane, in the kitchen lab we are boiling the dug out crumbs, looking for the secret of the winter preserves, that tameness of fire in which vacuoles of the August sun will melt buried deep down in the tissue of the gathered. On the other side of the window pane bees are withdrawing into beehives where they turn the multicoloured rain shower of summer meadow into a stark yellow plasma: the only substance that can completely fill up the caverns that this nuisance of the long winter is about to leave behind.

© translated by Damir Šodan

S one strane kuhinjskog prozora hrani nas rana jesen. Uranjamo do njezina dna i izranjamo šljive, jabuke, grožđe, čistimo usjeke vremena od slatkog taloga ljeta. S ove strane prozora izronjeno brojimo i razvrstavamo u pletene košare, prepuštamo se mirnim užicima jeseni kada znamo da su stvari na svome mjestu i sve na broju. S one strane prozora žamor prve kiše gasi suhi požar kolovoza. U početnoj vježbi jesenske alkemije kiša pretvara zemlju u blato. Tusto sunce lijeno se hladi u razbacanim lokvama i majke puštaju djecu da se u njima bezbrižno praćakaju. Rana je jesen i bezdan još ne vreba na dnu vode. U okviru prozora mlade lastavice ne žele napustiti gnijezdo, ne vjeruju pričama starijih kako se dani već kotrljaju u muklu provaliju zime. S one strane prozora šuma je topla i gostoljubiva kao tuga u poeziji panonskih pjesnika koji sanjaju Poljsku. Njome vrludamo od jutra do večeri. Zemlja istiskuje posljednje ugruške ljeta iz krvotoka i mi ih skupljamo, gljive i kestenje. Pomažemo prirodi da zimu dočeka već mrtva i oglodana. S ove strane prozora u kuhinjskom laboratoriju ukuhavamo iskopano grumenje, tražimo tajnu zimnice, tu pitomost vatre kojoj će se rastvoriti vakuole kolovoškog sunca, duboko ukopane u tkivima skupljenih plodova. S one strane prozora pčele se povlače u košnice gdje šareni pljusak ljetne livade pretvaraju u žarku žutu plazmu koja jedina može potpuno zapuniti kaverne koje će za sobom ostaviti pošast duge zime.

© Ivan Šamija