Populus Tremula

February 2016

 

 

Contribution by Viktorija Bogdanova

 

When a silent speck of dust of yours
passes next to my soul,
like ink
I overflow inside me,
without a drop of poetry,
so that the touch becomes levitation
so that you are no more,
so that you don’t exist anymore,
so that you stay a flutter
of a burnt out cigarette,
so unclear,
almost wet,
and fragile,
relieved,
untouched,
undarkened,
created out of
a piece of silence
and a deep sigh…

When I find trace of a grain of pain
that grows blue
in a transparent truth,
I am trying to smother it
with glass,
with water,
with ashes
falling from the smoke you leave,
to button it up,
to shut it up,
to make it long gone
from a mute elegy,
so that it disappears
and stops tearing up
under an apple
that’s burning on somebody’s else cobweb.

When I dream of nullifying you
across a wall,
across mists
and cracks,
I myself start
believing
in your nothing,
inquiring you painlessly
until I am knocked down
by a leaf that is giddily sprouting
from the bottom of an endless crack in my soul,
from the calm of a most tiny grain,
without announcement,
to a single piece of Moon
that drips from a painful truth,
that’s crumbling me until I am sugar,
until I’m dust,
until I’m painfully sensitive unbeing.

While I’m lying all by myself,
lifeless,
from my heart
charred,
an indigo aspen grows,
upwards,
towards a drop of Moon,
upwards,
through wars and blindness,
without a grain of light,
towards a drop hanging above
an old and else’s
calmly gilded apple tree,
growing fruitless,
with damnations in vain,
on my ashes,
towards lunar dust.