Сергей Жадан - Mesopotamia

There’s nothing there yet. Green night,
each silence has its own measure.
Knowing how many centuries it took
for the first things to appear,
he speaks her name.

Opening a window into the night,
he anxiously listens for any movement,
expecting something—anything,
but the heavy canvas of nothingness
gently falls into his hands.

From now on everything that happens to them—
ocean currents, icebergs in dead seas,
the daily cycles of the atmosphere,
songs of sperm whales, screams of phantoms,
the awakening of scents and colors,

grass roots and tree leaves,
lake ice and bird whistles,
iron ore and coal’s tired tremors,
the whispers and roars of obedient animals,
the yearnings of vibrant trading towns,

fires that burn ships,
death on dark silk banners,
dying stars hanging high in the firmament,
the silent dead in the summer ground,
blood, like lava in the fallow ridges of veins:

everything that was meant to come will come,
everything that once was will disappear,
like taxes owed for worlds revealed to them,
for a voice with hints of darkness,
for warmth liberated with each new breath.

Knowing everything that awaits them,
he still speaks her name,
woven out of consonants and bitter vowels,
until love’s green current,
a cool shadow of tenderness,
carries him away.

Marat died in his sleep
at the beginning of March,
in spring when the snow melts
and rivers run from their banks,
just as children run from their parents’ homes
after a hard winter.

Marat trained at the Spartacus Club.
He had technique, tried and tested,
his body was in shape, he looked serious,
he was probably the best fighter
in the welterweight class,
and had a tattoo of Fidel on his left leg.

The imam spoke at the funeral:
“The Prophet was never sad,” he said.
“The Prophet knew—evil devours evil.
What shall be, shall be. As far as we know.
Marat will have a different story to tell
about each of his transgressions.
The Prophet invented illnesses like pneumonia
for people like him.”

In the corner, Marat’s mother was silent.
Marat’s brother listened to the harsh words.
Then the imam placed his hand
on his narrow shoulders
and said:
“Everything that disappears, will appear once again.”
The brother answered, “Nothing disappears.
I’ll take up the mouth guard Marat used when he fought.

“I know why he died.
Every morning he fought against his phantoms.
Every day he beat his fists till they bled.
Every night he felt
the stars burn out overhead.
Only the bravest go beyond this boundary.
Anyone who saw him in the ring knows what I am talking about.

“How can something that still exists disappear?
He who gives us everything, what will he do with it?
Only fear can disappear.
The rest is on us—younger brothers
who break our hearts,
steadfast to the end.”

Then the brother stepped aside.
He was a year younger.
He always considered Marat the leader.
He followed him everywhere.
Now he fell silent and stepped aside,
holding back tears, ashamed in front of us.

When they carried out the body it started to snow.
It fell from the dark sky and landed at our feet.
The imam walked ahead, like an apparition.
Early spring is not the best time to visit a cemetery.
Women started to cry and men could feel
the silent stars above them burn out.

Fights without rules—daily wages of the saints,
the referee yells something, the crowd grows silent.
Young apostles fight
against the locals
they consider foreign.

They wrap Jesus’s hands into fists,
and shove him into the ring, as into a river.
His opponent, a young dockworker, faces him,
but doesn’t offer him his hand.

When Jesus falls on the canvas,
sliding into hell, somewhere near the bottom,
his body becomes brittle, like bread,
and his blood dry as wine.

Then someone shouts, “Come on, get it together!
Remember everything you used to tell us!
Get up or people will hear about this,
everywhere, before you know it.

“Get up and fight, as only you can!
Knock down that scum! Don’t let him walk out of here!
Each victory
brings you closer to the goal!

“No forgiveness for those who hide, not in the river or in the grass!
No grace from the Lord, no rights!
Come on, you’ve fallen so many times,
fallen and died!

“They’re all traitors and losers!
They don’t have a conscience, only gills,
fins, instead of wings on their backs!
Knock them down, Savior,
bloody your fists on them!

“Knock them down for their weakness and tears!
Knock them down for forgetting everything each night!
For watching their own deaths
like spectators!

“Anyway, they don’t listen to you or to us,
nothing will save them, they don’t give a shit about anything,
destroy them, O Lord, before they
destroy themselves.