Translated by Marina Stefanova
she’s waited for me
till 2 in the morning,
half-asleep on the table,
wearing the shabby pajamas,
in which she drowsily carries her daybreaks
around the kitchen,
in order to tell me
that Christ is risen
despite all doubts
that it happened
He’s risen indeed, mother
and thank you
Since it is too early for a finale,
that means we’re waiting for a twist.
Sitting on the sofa in a robe
the hero of the parable exists.
What is he then awaiting?
Retribution for that fear,
preventing him from learning
to rise and fight not a mere
a useless howling relic from the past?
Is it that like the listless Gods
we’re not expecting him to scream
to let his kneeling pleading soul
just go, no veneration or esteem.
But wait! How are we to know
that man is really questioning himself?
He’s here: An eating, laughing, sometimes loving man of all.
As for the rest, he’s looking at the screen,
or peering into someone’s entrance-hall,
perhaps he’s interested, for a bit,
and is relieved to know “the hero is OK,”
and wrapped in a blanket contemplates
his life: a screenplay
where something crucial’s missing
but he’s unsure what.
When will I get to know you,
inglorious body of mine,
hanging on to life by a nail;
you were there, suffering for what’s yours –
perhaps I unintentionally led you on
with some intimacy
with the sudden brush against something,
which was just once yet you remember as eternal,
but in a quiet afternoon,
when the earth is soft
and the sun is askew as every autumn
I’ll feel you pouring out your heart,
I’ll take your hand as if it’s someone else’s,
and I’ll finally ask your forgiveness.