THE SACRIFICE

and not having awaited a miracle
from us he kicked that black stone
and smiled so sorry and the sea
misbehaved, Lord – enough betray us!
Oh bless us, our chosen brother
as you fall away slowly far off
as slow as bread turns to stone

Translated by Laima Sruoginis


OUT OF THE WAY HOMESTEAD

pass it by – the abandoned homestead –
and warn others to do the same because
although no one was crucified there
none of the hungry were ever fed there
it is empty now – and yet each quick step
in that direction sends a shock through the branches –
a glance like a nettle's sting

Translated by Laima Sruoginis


THE LAME GRAVEDIGGER RETURNS HOME

deathly still having parted the tall river grasses just a little,
tonight again he saw that bather –
two tiny pubescent breasts
shone from the dark like two small stars
surprised, he stood a second more
then spat in the place where he had stood
and creaked along the sandy shoreline pushing his wheelbarrow

Translated by Laima Sruoginis


THE LOCALS

beside a fashionable city
a rose colored cherry orchard blooms
an old woman sits beside the road
clutching a cherry branch
bees buzz within the branch
– what is it that the old woman is bumbling?
– that for us it is a long way to our homeland

Translated by Laima Sruoginis


THE ONE-HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD BEGGAR

he sits on a rotten bench
with a chewed cane at his side
in his pupils the world is already fading
God and the devil are of one color
only one thing can press a tear from his eye –
on Sunday, in the Old City, on the street
that familiar melody played on the accordion

Translated by Laima Sruoginis


* * *

we'll return to the main hall 
we'll fold our hands in our laps 
we'll sit my angel
like two strangers – who else 
but us could take this
sitting with our hands folded in our laps 
smiling in the radiant hall 
extinguishing ourselves like candles

Translated by Laima Sruoginis


A GENTLE NIGHT – OUR POVERTY

What did you earn, my heart, in this night? Not one bite, not one bit 
of money, and after all – what did you earn, my heart, in this night? 
What you earned will not feed my body, protect it from the cold, cure 
it of a terrible disease – what poverty you have earned me, my heart, 
through this dreamy and sleepless night.

Translated by Laima Sruoginis


AWAKENING II

I awoke from a kiss, but could not see anyone near my bed: not one 
blade of grass was stepped on, not one drop of dew was torn asunder, 
not one speck of dust was collected from the velvet flowers; I awoke 
from a kiss and in the round mirrors of morning I divined my own 
startled face and called out that I'd never seen myself look better – Oh, 
the ravings! Oh, the effort! Oh, the fading moon! I awoke from a kiss, 
but could not see anyone near my bed.

Translated by Laima Sruoginis


THE CHANTER'S EXPULSION FROM THE CITY

The man who chanted about nothing
left following the wind and the dogs
and the city remained behind, tossed onto the snow, 
with all its premonitions about fire and its nights of love.

Beyond the bend in the river his cape flapped,
a pack of dogs watched him from the hill's slope, 
and hell's din could be heard 
trapped in the drift of the moonlight

The man stopped, turned heavily around, 
his cape, tossed about, fluttered 
like a crow with copper eyes,

and, bowing to those who did not like him, 
the man who chanted about nothing 
left following the wind and the dogs.

Translated by Laima Sruoginis


* * *

There are still five minutes of night left 
in this room filled with wind, 
and this vagabond of love
who breathes beside my white shoulder.

It is still pure, she is still beautiful,
my lips still drown in her hair,
lilac blossoms still flutter past the birds 
in slow motion.

The highest star still gazes
with its lonely, calm eye,
and an ant runs towards the stars 
screaming something in fear.

Translated by Laima Sruoginis


PROCESSION

the procession as lucid as insanity
passed by me tonight
someone screamed in the dark: we are not holy! 
someone shouted: come with us!
then it withdrew into the distance, then there was only the fluttering of stars
in a smashed glass beneath the bosom

Translated by Laima Sruoginis

Donaldas Kajokas is an experimental and inventive poet best known for his miniaturae – short seven line fragments playing on the border between poetry and prose. Kajokas has published six collections of poetry and one collection of essays. Kajokas works as an editor for Nemunas magazine and resides in Kaunas.