If epochs pass
since I cried out these tears,
running from the depths,
will I still remember the abyss
by it's first name,
and the song of the syrens
from the bottom of the well,
filled with iced water,
numbing me to the bone marrow?
What does she mean to me?
The one who named herself
and painted her own likeness
with the symbols of death and morbidity,
if I spend the rest of my times
under the Sun, in a quiet conversation,
like once upon a time
on the bathroom floor,
under the blanket, where I was feeding off
of the misery of my own?
Half of my life, I'm not the same,
but isn't it always there?
In the form of the tree trunk?
The mark of the winds of it's first years?
Misery remains sweet,
like the pleasantness of the bitter
in coffee or tea,
the heat of the spices,
like a weird hobby of the (allegedly) healthy me.
Maybe the redness of the nights cried through
can fade,
and my dark names can stay on the far away pages;
but I can't and I don't want to
forget completely about the queen of desperation,
sapping out of them sensations and meaning,
similar to the catharsis granted by art.
Ako prođu epohe
otkako sam isplakala suze
potekle iz samog centra,
hoću li se i dalje sećati
ličnog imena ambisa
i pesme sirena
sa dna bunara
ledene vode
od koje koštana srž trne?
šta za mene predstavlja ona
koja je simbolikom smrti i morbidnosti
sebe zvala
i sopstvene portrete oslikavala
ako isto, i više vremena
provedem pod Suncem, u tihom razgovoru,
kao nekada na pločicama kupatila,
pod jorganom, gde sam se sopstvenom mizerijom hranila?
Već sam pola života drugačija,
ali ne ostaje li zauvek
u formi stabla
otisak vetrova njegovih prvih godina?
Mizerija mi ostaje slatka,
kao prijatnost gorčine kafe ili čaja
i vrelih, ljutih začina,
kao čudan hobi mene, (navodno) zdrave.
Možda crvenilo i nadutost uplakanih noći
mogu da izblede,
i moja mračna imena ostanu samo na dalekim stranicama;
ali ne mogu i ne želim
da zaboravim do kraja kraljicu očaja
koja iz njega crpi osete i smisao, sličan
katarzi pred umetnošću.