Треска 2005
Translated by Larisa Schultz ©
THE COD
Afterwards you'll imagine you noticed the one who was
taking aim very slowly and priming his weapon well...
But in fact nothing happened. You've made it all up, of course.
If he shot, then it looks like he missed, anyone can tell.
No invasion whatever, a patrol need not pass by.
A display lighted up, for some system did not perform.
As if right after February there arrived July.
It was so very cold, it got so very nice and warm.
Not much worse than a punch by a woolen paw to your skin.
Don't beg yet for a monument, first let us see your works.
You are not made of bronze, you are not even made of tin.
You're just thrown out of water and flattened upon the rocks.
You'll get back into shape. Come on now, get up from the sand.
You've indeed run aground, but stop flapping your dripping gills.
Never mind, stupid cod. Doesn't matter. It's not the end.
Shots, if any, hit way off the mark. Not the kind that kills.
Yes, sunflower seeds slipped out of your hands, not that much remains.
Must have dropped them while nibbling, and husks scattered all around.
Never mind, stupid cod. It's too hard for your fishy brains.
What does matter, in truth, is that darkness turned into sound.
Like a radio-set that would suddenly jerk and crack
after half-day of silence, damn babbler of a device.
As if tropic Brazil came in place of a skiing track.
It was so very cold, it got so very warm and nice.
Angels are right at hand, it is something you didn't know.
Details moved from the dark, little things came back from afar.
Look, the scene is alight, it's full up to the farthest row.
Everyone's clapping hands. It must seem to them that you are
circling over the dark, like a gull over shallow seas,
sticking out brittle wings, crooked weirdly, against the storm...
Well, so what if meanwhile you just lie on the sand like this?
Never mind, stupid codfish. What matters is that it's warm.