Poems from the poetry book Tėbūnie (Let it Be, 2006)
Translated by Eugenijus Ališanka and Kerry Shawn Keys
* * *
Such a biting white frost
outside the window and inside me –
I’m afraid to begin to speak
for fear the hail of my words
might hurt you.
Pressing a harmonica to his lips,
a red-headed boy in the frame
on seeing me is afraid to play,
for fear his song might freeze.
I restrain the sigh inside myself
so that the windows do not blindly ice over,
do not separate me
from the birds’ vigil on the windowsill.
* * *
In the dream I uttered
Let it be,
Spring already, come back –
and all the birds flew back,
just one falcon missing –
maybe it stayed in Antakalnis?
Did I sin against dreaming then,
by uttering words not belonging to me?
I just wanted to know
if your dream is still alive –
Let it be –
the falcon’s still with you –
* * *
A town with five churches, four bars,
nestles up to me
as if I had been looking for it –
there’s not even a saint there, not a single drunk –
only lost Saturdays,
empty-handed Sundays
dog me –
three mourners keep watch and wait
with the good news –
Not my town,
I wasn’t looking for it,
it found me
and won’t let me loose –
Let it be –
I’ll stay.
* * *
Don’t turn back,
the old Mažeikiai station follows you –
sooty locomotives wheeze and whistle,
carriage wheels clatter and rumble –
there’s no need to travel anywhere,
you’ve already departed –
Don’t turn back,
the forgotten street where you left
your rushing footsteps pursue you,
you don’t need them anymore,
you’ve already rushed too far –
Don’t turn back,
there’s nothing and there was nothing behind you,
just the mist between sky and earth,
just mist.
* * *
I feel how both my ancestors,
one with a hammer in the smithy,
the other alongside a rye field with a scythe,
thoughtfully count
how many children in their family yet survive –
then suddenly flinch and stop –
just one? and that one hardly theirs –
so not enough? you’ve gathered together everyone,
grown-ups, the elderly and the newborn –
do not forge horseshoes anymore, I’m not breeding horses –
do not reap rye anymore, I’m not baking bread –
and if one is not enough for you,
split me in half.
* * *
I will emigrate to that country which doesn’t yet exist
and will give it the name
SUTEMA,
and it will be independent
from the sky and the earth,
not for sale, not for buying,
and not a fairy-tale –
When the Great Magician
touches the cloud with his hand,
the Liūnė rivulet will start to run,
taking away all the drowned –
I will emigrate to that country
which will one day come to pass –
From “The Vilnius Review”, 2007, Spring / Summer (No 21).
