All is yellow in the tobacco picker's dream,
all is coal-black in the morning when I think of Thrace.
And again, the summer descends from the hill,
a whirlwind of people and dust
roars to bar my passage,
to blow me away to a bonfire rusty with the ages
and to say: bow your head, unravel your hair,
spread your raiment, barbarian,
ancient winds make the loudest flames!
All is yellow in the tobacco picker's dream,
yellow are my blackened fingers shriveled from the pen:
a bar, a cudgel, an axis,
an overburnt word
and tar on the skin: could more be done,
in this prairie of failures
and steps turned toward
the only way possible:
beyond the hill and beyond the river.
The name of Zlatograd is as if from a fairy tale,
and fairy tales become our home
in the days when shirts are turned inside out
reverse to reverse:
now and never,
never and never,
I go, to postpone oblivion and
allow my eyes to straighten themselves on the horizon.
On the wall of a buried house, the morning sways,
on the wall of my flat, the washed-out shipwrecks sway.
She gave birth to seven dead sons and one alive,
my thoughts gave birth to the name of a nonexistent boy:
Iskar, that would be his name if I had him.
People we knew and needed,
people we met and who intercepted us,
people we walked with,
made noise with, moved house with,
with whom we measured the desk, the room, and the reef:
they are like the light as they do not know returning.
And when a sound like a sleigh bell rings out in my ear,
I know: nothing is in vain, and everything is in vain.
The sea will digest the dead fish,
then a wave will rise for a bit and touch
the sandal on the beach.
Then the salty wind will slowly air out the canopies
and a yellow Thracian night will fall over the world.
I will pack the black Zlatograd in my suitcase
and load it into the train car: we are born there
where they do not know us, and it is good to embrace
our remaining provinces.
Sve je žuto u snu beračice duhana,
sve je vrano u jutru kada mislim na Trakiju.
I opet se s brda spušta ljeto,
kovitlac ljudi i prašine
huči da mi zapriječi put,
da me otpuhne na lomaču zahrđalu od vjekova
i kaže: spusti glavu, raspleti kosu,
raširi haljine, barbarko,
na drevnim se vjetrovima najbučnije gori!
Sve je žuto u snu beračice duhana,
žuti su i moji modri prsti skvrčeni od olovke:
šipka, batina, osovina,
pregorjela riječ
i katran na koži: može li se više od toga,
u ovoj preriji promašaja
i koraka okrenutih u smjeru
kojim se jedino moglo:
s one strane brda i s druge strane rijeke.
Zlatograd je ime kao iz bajke,
a bajke nam postaju dom
u danima kada se košulje preokreću
s naličja na naličje:
sad i nikad,
nikad i nikad,
idem, da odgodim zaborav i
dopustim očima da se usprave na horizontu.
Na zidu sahranjene kuće njiše se jutro,
na zidu mog stana njišu se isplivani brodolomi.
Ona je rodila sedam mrtvih sinova i jednog živog,
moje su misli rodile ime za nepostojećeg dječaka:
Iskar, tako bi se zvao da ga imam.
Ljudi koje smo znali i koje smo trebali,
koje smo sretali i koji su nas presretali,
s kojima smo hodali,
bučili, selili,
s kojima smo mjerili stol, sobu i hrid:
nalik su svjetlosti jer ne poznaju povratak.
I kad mi za uhom odjekne nešto kao praporac
ja znam: ništa nije uzaludno i uzaludno je sve.
Mrtve ribe probavit će more,
zatim će kratko narasti val i dodirnuti
sandalu na žalu.
Potom će slani vjetar polako ispuhati krošnje
i nad svijet će pasti žuta trakijska noć.
Spakirat ću u kofer crni Zlatograd
i ubaciti ga u vagon: rađamo se tamo
gdje nas ne znaju i dobro je prigrliti
svoje preostale pokrajine.
