Andriana Škunca

Napuštena kuća iznova oživljuje, otvara se i daruje sve što je čuvala u samoći. Zadah plijesni, škripa dotrajala poda. Napukline pokazuju prisnost sa svime što je uvučeno u njih. Samo se ponekad vidi sve istrošenija unutrašnjost zidova.

Kuća, čuvarica odsutnih i njihova neprestana čežnja. Premda načeta po bridovima, skuplja misao što ju je gradila. Zvijezde se suglašavaju izdaleka. Šutljive, čuvaju njezin oblik.
...

The deserted house comes alive again, it opens and gives away everything it kept in solitude. The odour of mildew, the squeaking of a dilapidated floor. The cracks are familiar with everything that got sneaked in. Only from time to time the wall interior, ever crumblier, becomes visible.

The house, a keeper of the absent and their perpetual yearning. Although chipped at the edges, it collects the thought that has built it. The stars concur from air. Silent, they preserve its shape.
...

zimi
na moru rastu tvrde staze
bura zapada ribama do kostiju

zimi
škrape drže uže rasutome brodu
jarbolom drhti klatež natučenog neba

za mrtve surost i kratkoća dana

zimi
u smrznute panjeve puževi zarastu
stvrdne se zmija u boku starog hrama

zimi
narušenu smokvu pije goli zid
najteže je neimaštinu uhvatiti na dno
...

in winter
solid trackways overgrow the sea
storms sift down to the bones of fishes

in winter
stonecracks grip the hawsers of a boat laid open
an arc of bruised sky shivers down the mast

for the dead, rough ends and days grown short

in winter
snails swell on frozen stumps
a snake stiffens on the side of the old temple

in winter
the wall drinks in the sloping fig
hardest of all, to plumb the deeps of beggary
...

Sunce zalijepljeno za prozor više nije užarena kugla u koju ne mogu gledati. Smanjeno - samo je hladna točka koju pomičem sa staklom.
Zidom otiskuje svoj oslabljeni odraz.
Poslije, kad ga više nema, sunce naprašuje mrak. Isijava iz dogorjelih pukotina. Klizi s tamom i zatrpava samo sebe.
...

The sun glued to the window is no more a white-hot ball that defeats the eye. Shrunken to a point of cold that I wipe from the glass.
It stamps its drained reflection on the wall.
After, vanished, sun pollinates the dark. Glimmers from burnt-out cracks.
Glides with the dark, itself inters itself.
...

Kako joj nečujno prolazi, majka namata vrijeme na štap, razvlači ga u hodu. Doziva iz raznih udaljenosti, provjerava, pita. I dok šeta, štap je ticalo kojim ispituje - gleda.
Kako sve brzo zaboravlja, neprestano ponavlja isto: kako, kada, zašto? Sadašnjost protječe kroz nju kao nešto neprisutno. Sve čega se sjeća dolazi iz djetinjstva i nekih budućih predjela. O tome nam priča svagda isto.
Kad se uspinje stubištem, vrijeme za njom zamata nevidljivi sag. Sa svake stube pita: - Jesi doli? - Jesi dolika?
Nikoga. Ništa.
...

As it passes her unheard, mother spins time onto a stick, tents it as she walks. She calls from here and there, tests, questions. And as she walks her stick's a feeler, with which she probes and peers.
How quickly she forgets it all, always repeating and repeating: how, when, where? The present flows through her like absence. All she recalls harks back to childhood and on to the parts to come. She speaks of it to us, the same anew.
When she climbs the stairs, behind her time spins an invisible carpet. At every step she asks: "You down there? Are you down there?"
No one. Nothing.
...

Iz jedne u drugu kuću polako premještam stvari. Sve što stane u zaborav približava se i raste.
Put dopisuju: smokva, suhozid, vjetar. Popucale vratnice. S koje god strane prišla, jedna je skrivena. Mimoilazim se s nevidljivima. Veselo šuškaju u ljetnom danu željni uzajamnih prepoznavanja. Zapinju o paučinu, njišu se s rojevima mušica.
Razmjenjuju prošlo s budućim.
Prenosim kutije, pocrnjele fotografije, mapu, slike prelomljene u napuklu staklu. Čekaju me pusta mjesta.
Pritisak o vrata istodobno načinje i skriva tajnu u bravi. Uspomene se vraćaju dalekom vremenu osušenom u kamenjaru, ništa ne oživljavajući.
Dodirujem prašinu, lagano, da se ne rasprši. Cipele, svilene haljine, suho grožđe, razbacani naokolo. I nešto prisno što me nadgleda.
...

I'm moving the things from one house slowly to the other. All that fits within oblivion nears, looms larger.
The fig, the drystone wall, the wind: these mark the journey. The cracked gate. From wherever I approach, the other side is hidden. I pass myself by with unseen folk. They whisper brightly in the summer's day, hungry to recognise one another. They stumble around the spider's web, swaying with the swarms of gnats.
They trade past for future.
I carry over the boxes, obscured photographs, a map, creased pictures behind cracked glass. Empty spaces in wait for me.
Pushing at the door awakes the secret within the lock, at the same time masks it. Memories return from long ago, parched in the stonefield, nothing reviving.
I brush the dust with a finger, slowly, not to disturb it. Shoes, silk dresses, raisines, strewn all about. And something intimate, watching me.
...

Skupivši selo u zavežljaj
majka se ne okreće
za onima što ostaju

Ispred nje
i za njom
čistina
puna zaborava

Kuće stisnute
jedna uz drugu
ne propuštaju
vlat trave
sjenu

Grane pridržavaju krovove
motre pustoš
u kojoj nema oznaka

Raširenih dlanova
majka namata
konce rupca
uhvativši
živice
toranj

Već daleka
ničemu ne pripada
...

Bundling up the village
mother doesn't turn
to those remaining

Before her
and behind her
an empty space
filled with oblivion

The houses, cramped
one against another
won't let past
a blade of grass
a shadow

Branches hold to the roofs
observe the barrens
featureless

Her palms apart
mother winds on the
ends of the scarf
grasping
hedges
the tower

Far away now,
She is no one's
...

U suhoj smokvi zrnca svjetla i mliječ za gorka usta jeseni. Prazna šalica odzvanja na stolu. Uz nju metvica i limun. Pčela se uhvatila za zraku sunca, prekrila je hladna sjena nalik leptiru.

Támnī zid. Pretače se vino, kuša prezrelo grožđe. Davno pobrane smokve suše se na dasci. Kasno ljeto lijepi se za ovlažene plodove. Iskri slador.

U kutiji, između peteljki, crnina. Treba dodati dva-tri lovorova lista koji će razdvojiti gustu pređu, sprešati je u šutnji.

Do Božića, po kori, kristali. Šećerna prašina. za kazaljke sata lovi se studen. Čini se, s poklopca palo je inje, zabijelilo sobu, smokve i prste.
...

Grains of light in a dried fig, and beebread for autumn's bitter mouth. An empty cup chimes to a close on the table. Beside it, mint and lemon. A bee snatched at a ray of sun, covered by a cold shadow like a butterfly.

The wall grows dark. The wine is bottled, taste of over-ripened grapes. The figs, plucked long ago, dry on the board. Late summer clings to the moistened fruits. Sweetness glistens.

In the box, between the stems, blackness. Now to add two or three bay leaves to separate the thick clumped fibres, press them in silence.

By Christmas, crystals on the skin. A dusting of sugar. Frost stalks the hands of the clock. It seems that hoarfrost has fallen from the lid, blanched the room, figs and our fingers.
...

Utihla uza zid tvori još jedan
- niži.

Kiša joj sipi u otvorene oči.

Ispire krajolik.
...

Fallen silent against the wall it makes another - a lower wall.

Rain drizzles into its open eyes.

It rinses the landscape.
...

Probodena kupinama sjena se uvukla u kamenjar, puzi između naoštrenih škrapa, vuče za sobom ogrebene pršljenove.

Razvučena u tanku nit lijepi se za izdubena mjesta. Popucala visi u kapima. Malo dalje iznova izbija iz podzemna tijeka, prati nas razasuta svuda naokolo. Stalno privezana za neku muku u nama - poput slomljena štapa o koji se naslanja.

Vodi nas rubom svoga protega ili mi vodimo nju. Mrvi se iz sunca, iz dogorjelih zraka: sažima u pepeo koji je naznačuje.

Za oblaka, sva istegnuta u dan.

I sve je sjena kad nje nema.
...

Pierced by blackberries the shadow squeezed itself into the rock-garden, crawling between jagged sinkholes, dragging its bruised vertebrae.

Stretched into a thin thread it glues itself to hollowed places. Cracked it hangs in drops. Farther away it gushes out of the underground stream, following us everywhere. Constantly tied to some suffering that resides in us - like a broken staff it leans on.

It takes us along its edges, or we do so. It crumbles from the sun, from burned-out rays: it condenses in the ash that marks it.

When the sky is overcast, it's extended over the whole day.

And everything is a shadow where there is no shadow.
...

U kocki tame svaki put ureže istu crtu teškim hodom koji je pridržava. Od ulaska u mrak do izlaska u drugu prostoriju oslanja se o nevidljivi putokaz.
Dan joj zapreka.
Noć, nasuprot, razbuđuje pribranost što nepogrešivo upravlja njezinim pokretima. Ili je to navika koja se ponavlja mehanički: put odlaska i put povratka?
Ruka joj izabire, štap odmjerava.
Pomaže li joj nešto pritom ili pak potreba da prijeđe svagda istu razdaljinu, zrači čestice energije što je drugima nepoznata?
Slušam pucketanje poda, škripu vrata, putovanje se nastavlja. Jednakom upornošću nekoliko puta.
Pa ipak - dokle je i s kojom slavom stigla?
...

In the cube of dimness she always carves the same path with her heavy gait that supports her. Between entering the darkness and going to the other room, she relies on an invisible signpost.
Days are her obstacle.
Nights, on the other hand, awaken the presence of mind that guises her movements impeccably. Or, is it a habit repeated mechanically: going away and coming back?
A hand chooses, a stick measures.
Does anything help her or it is the need to cover the same distance, radiating particles of energy unknown to others?
I listen to the floor squeaking, the door creaking, the journey continues. Several times, with the same perseverance.
Yet - where did she arrive, and with what glory?
...