* Junotempel in Agrient (1828.)
She is walking protostairs, antistairs because they neither elevate
nor depress. She is passing through one of the dry spirals
that intrude, they’ve always intruded, into my days,
rarely, often – permanently, at least. They wriggle between
the walls, pierce them partly, like the murex shells engulfed
in the extravagant tiles from our bathroom.
I think that out of that room, but not only from there, leads a trapdoor,
holes in the floor for staircases, toward staircases.
The windows are a lie made up for us, behind them only concrete. Stairs
lead to staircases, the light is always far up there,
shadows gather in disregard of it.
She goes wearing the common walker’s garments, she isn’t entitled
to anything better, those are the same garments that I don,
in the male version of the uniform, at night, in the afternoon, whenever I set out.
She is looking for a rift, looking for the final curve of the mollusc’s shell,
unaware of the terrible cruelty of fractals, so distant from the autumn
she longs for on that rusty skyless road.*
* Frau auf der Treppe (1818.)
Translated from the Croatian, or written in English by the Author