Мария Старожицкая - Навіщо. What For

Просто вдень явилась муза Марія,

На сходовій клітці задовольнила,

Він потому чекав її, мріяв, кликав,

Та йому ніколи ніхто не вірив -

Я на мить від подиву оніміла,

А коли зібралася розповісти,

Він сказав, що друг вже помер ще влітку.

24 травня 2014 року

This is your head that is aching me

As it contains our worlds today.

Those where there's black rain and white grass,

Where I am not I and where you are not you.

There, thunder, too, is bellowing in the sky

But no one tries to determine its caliber.

And there when strangers do come to your home

They bring hot bread with them.

As you know bread is the head of everything and all.

And my head is also aching

I beat sharp words into it.

To kill this pain at least for a moment.

It will be easier if the rain goes away,

And weakness and night and war.

But before this, the gray oozy fog

That never comes on its own.

10 July 2014

Це мені болить твоя голова,

Бо у ній сьогодні наші світи,

Ті, де чорний дощ і біла трава,

Де і я не я, де і ти – не ти.

Там також у небі гуркоче грім,

Та ніхто не рахує його калібр,

Там якщо чужі і заходять в дім,

То несуть із собою гарячий хліб.

Він, як знаєш, є всьому голова,

А твоя голова у мене болить,

Я вбиваю в неї гострі слова,

Щоб цей біль убити хоча б на мить.

Буде легше, злива аби пройшла,

Разом з нею - неміч, ніч та війна,

А до того - сіра в'язка імла

Що ніколи не приходить одна.

10 липня 2014 року

The Sun is setting with blood today

Perhaps, such red cloudless sky is everywhere now:

In this country, and where antipodes are, in Australia

Where great specialists on AIDS have not made it on a plane,

Acquired immunodeficiency syndrome;

The remnants of their bodies collected by aborigines of Torez,

Black and red, coal and blood,

You can embroid a shirt,

You can print Yarosh's visiting card.

The customer I am calling is unavailable.

For several hours, he's unavailable,

He's in the anti-terrorist operation zone,

His company chanced on a sniper,

Two killed, six wounded,

One of the dead remained there,

Where first there is grass, then soil,

Then coal,

And where it is deeper there are antipodes

They had not managed to survive under bullets.

Then the enemies will mine the body

So that the dead one kills his brothers-in-arms.

And my customer cannot sleep for so long

With an empty sleeping bag next to him,

And he'll come back at dawn

Remembering the de-mining experience.

And everything's gonna be alright,

Everything's gonna be alright.

Because we all have the forgotten immunity for death.

18 July 2014

Сонце сьогодні заходить із кров`ю —

мабуть, усюди таке червоне безхмарне небо,

і в нас, і в антиподів – в Австралії,

куди не долетіли відомі фахівці зі СНІДу,

синдрому набутого імунодефіциту,

рештки їхніх тіл збирають аборигени Торезу .

чорне і червоне – вугілля і кров,

можна сорочку вишити,

можна візитку Яроша.

Мій абонент поза зоною досяжності,

вже кілька годин поза зоною досяжності,

у зоні антитерористичної операції.

його рота натрапила на снайпера

два двохсотих, шість – трьохсотих,

один із вбитих так і лишився

там, де спочатку – трава, потім – земля,

далі – вугілля,

а ще глибше – вже антиподи —

не зуміли витягти під кулями.

Відтак вороги замінують тіло,

аби мертвий вбивав своїх побратимів,

та мій абонент не зможе ніяк заснути

із порожнім спальником поруч,

і повернеться удосвіта,

згадуючи досвід сапера.

І все буде добре,

все буде добре,

бо всі вже маємо набутий імунітет до смерті.

18 липня 2014 року

"Good evening Mum, how you are?"

I don't hear anything else as there's an explosion of "Grad".

It is very loud.

Very very loud.

So loud there's nothing to compare it with.

And I cry, I cry ferociously: "Hide!!!"

And there the reply is, in between missiles, jokingly:

"Mum, if you're being nervous I won't be calling again."

Then I calmly tell him to put on his helmet

And stick empty cartridges into ears:

5.45 millimeters is best for this.

And I get to know that for five hours

His own mother tries to get through

And he can't answer her

As for her he's in the capital working at a construction site

And there it is usually not so loud as is now where he is.

He's a smart aleck for making himself so comfortable: a son of two mums.

And I only have two daughters,

And I am asking myself:

If he were my own, my native son,

Would I cry any louder

Or fall down at the threshold grabbing his feet

So that he does not volunteer for a Guards battalion,

Does not learn to aim to kill, cannot...

Oh no, I might provoke a curse.

And I don't know the answer.

No, I do have the answer: I really would cry

But in silence, as a fish would.

My son has two mums.

Both are far away now.

Somewhere close is the third, enemy's mother.

She, as the neighbors said,

Fled when her son was killed,

A separatist sniper.

My son was at their flat,

He took away two grenade launchers,

The sights and a pile of rounds.

And then he saw fish.

Their mouths were moving.

They say fish's hearing is very bad.

Maybe they have not heard "Grad" until now.

They are so golden, aquarium.

They are from among those fish that fulfill your desires.

He did not make a wish.

He fed them,

He changed water for them.

Because water has to be clean.

Very, very clean.

Transparent

As our entire today's life.

The flat was sealed of course,

He now asks whether there'll be enough food for them

Until the war ends.

Or until mum comes there.

8 August 2014

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