Sunday, September 21, 2014

Oliverio Hirondo

                                          UMOR

                                 Umoran.
                                 Da!
                                 Umoran
                                 što upotrebljavam samo jednu ruku,
                                 dve usne,
                                 dvadeset prstiju,
                                 ne znam koliko reči,
                                 ne znam koliko uspomena,
                                 sivkastih,
                                 iskidanih.

                                 Umoran,
                                 vrlo umoran
                                 od ovog hladnog skeleta,
                                 toliko stidljivog,
                                 toliko neporočnog
                                 da, kad bude ogoleo,
                                 neću znati je li to onaj
                                 što mi je služio dok sam bio živ.

                                 Umoran.
                                 Da!
                                 Umoran što nemam pipke,
                                 po oko na svakoj lopatici,
                                 pravi rep,
                                 veseo,
                                 razmahnut,
                                 a ne ovaj licemerni patrljak,
                                 jadni,
                                 zakržljali.

                                 Umoran,
                                 više od svega,
                                 što sam uvek sa sobom,
                                 što svakog dana sebe nalazim,
                                 kad prođe san,
                                 tamo gde sam bio,
                                 sa istim nosem
                                 i istim nogama;
                                 kao da ne bih želeo
                                 da sa kožom obale čekam greben,
                                 nudim rosi dve dojke magnolije,
                                 milujem zemlju trbuhom gusenice
                                 i živim, nekoliko meseci, u utrobi kamena.




                                 PRIVIĐENJE U GRADU

                                 Iz zemlje niklo?
                                 Sa neba sišlo?
                                 Bilo je u žamoru,
                                 ranjeno,
                                 teško ranjeno,
                                 nepomično,
                                 nemo,
                                 povlačilo se ispred noći,
                                 ispred neizbežnog,
                                 sleđenih žila,
                                 od strave,
                                 od asfalta,
                                 sa očima sveca,
                                 potpuno, potpuno nago,
                                 gotovo plavo od tolike beline.

                                 Govorili su o konju.
                                 Ja verujem da je bio anđeo.





                                 ČEMU SE NADAMO

                                 Zakasniće, zakasniće.

                                 Već znam da će i dalje
                                 klipovi,
                                 kamata,
                                 znoj,
                                 kalemovi
                                 nastaviti da proizvode
                                 punom parom,
                                 serijski,
                                 nepravdu,
                                 glad,
                                 zlobu,
                                 očajanje;
                                 da bi se gliste s praznim prslučićima,
                                 ambasadorske krave,
                                 stari debelokošci sa dlakavim ustima,
                                 zasitili preljuba,
                                 punih stomaka,
                                 dijamanata,
                                 kavijara,
                                 lekova.

                                 Već znam da će proći mnogo godina
                                 dok ti ljuskari sa asfalta
                                 i šljam
                                 očiste glavu,
                                 zaborave zavist,
                                 ne dive se okrutnosti,
                                 ne obožavaju laž,
                                 i oslobode se ljušture
                                 nasilja,
                                 slepila,
                                 ništavnosti,
                                 balege.

                                 Ali možda će jednoga dana,
                                 pre no što se zemlja umori da nas privlači
                                 i nudi nam svoje grudi,
                                 mozak im poslužiti da se osete čovečnim,
                                 da budu ljudi,
                                 da budu žene,
                                 - ne sanduci za imetak,
                                 niti gole pritke -,
                                 da savladaju točkove,
                                 spreče da nas ubiju,
                                 potvrde da se život otrže i cepa
                                 ludačke košulje svih sistema;
                                 i otkriva, ponovo, da se sva bogatstva
                                 nalaze u nama a ne pod zemljom.

                                 A onda...
                                 Ah, toga dana ćemo
                                 raširiti ruke
                                 ne plašeći se da će nam nagon ujesti pete,
                                 niti sumnjati u sve,
                                 čak i u svoju senku;
                                 i bićemo kadri da priđemo hrani,
                                 noći,
                                 rekama,
                                 bez crvenjenja,
                                 krotko,
                                 svetla pogleda,
                                 mirnih ruku;
                                 i upotrebljavaćemo sadržajne reči,
                                 prave;
                                 ne kao one reči nakostrešene od mrzovolje
                                 koje balave hijene šapućući nam molbe na uho,
                                 ni one što se dave
                                 u strofama od šerbeta
                                 i snega od mućkova,
                                 već reči jednostavne,
                                 sveže,
                                 korenite,
                                 koje umesto da nas razdvajaju
                                 bar malo nas približavaju;
                                 ili još bolje:
                                 ćutaćemo
                                 da bismo oslušnuli bilo svega što postoji
                                 i doživeli čudo svega što nas okružuje,
                                 dok nam neko ne kaže,
                                 glasom hrasta,
                                 ono čemu se već vekovima

                                 uzalud nadamo.



Preveo R. Konstantinović


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