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At angels` home
prose [ ]

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by [Camica ]

2005-05-04  |   

Literary Translation - Translations of classic and original poetry and other materialsThis text is a follow-up  | 



I have been at angels` home. They gave me coffee and backup smiles for the times when I`d need some. They`d given me even a feather so that I can fly in the green forest that I dream every night. But I can`t because you can`t fly with a feather, not even do a spring (they didn`t know I`d use “but” in this sentence because they`d forgotten that man doesn`t always exist in the present. Some say that everything before “but” is a lie, but it is not). It melts at the first ray of joy. And when I should cry after what I am not, an angel, I take my backup smile. I watch at above with a perfect toothless smile of an imperfect man and I dream another visit to the angels: maybe, maybe I`ll get something more than a feather, maybe I`ll get two…wings?
Before “but” the green forest is made of strong oaks with birds hidden in the flight towards Heaven, with bluebells filled with charmed terrestrial symphonies, with sprightly deer springing in a simple flight, with angels turned into fairies…After “but” there may be snakes that lure, wild boars watching every step and wolves that can`t wait for the nights with full moon to sing, but you think they wait for you. Don’t forget that before “but” everything may be a lie. Because “but” is maybe Adam’s question in Heaven and man’s way of not believing. All the beautiful then would be lost: birds too, deer too, bluebells too and there would be only the shadow left by light, but light exists. I’ll leave this “but” for now and…
I start again on the same tortuous path and full of ash, of scratched knees and elbows, with the unhealed crust for hundreds of years, I start again on the path full of smoked cigars far inside the milimetrical stupid green lung to arrive once again at the home of my angels. I find no house, I find no sentence before “but”.
I remain behind with a crippled feather soaked in mud and I start writing on the land. I write with the mud inside of me: drops of sweat and earth thrown on the future grave, I write on my earth dry and barren from now on, in which you can`t throw the pickaxe to grow even a weed.
Now angels visit me in a hope, my little home. I hope I can still hope. On my walls lay hanging framed pictures of my reality broken dreams. One picture is not broken yet and it is empty: tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow…

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