Vytautas Stankus

1.

 

mice are gnawing their way inside

which means that summer is ending

and rain presses its fingers over the holes

 

the burrow shines in the night

but no one stops by

even when it rains

 

earlier, there used to be snow

but even that doesn't dare

 

only mice gnawing into the moon

constantly scratching away:

 

— mama, what is that glow over there?

— child, it will be hard for you to understand:

it isn't really there, like us.

 

there is only the gnawing

 

2.

 

i would like for us waking

to sigh to each other quietly

and sigh quietly while it rains

and dally in bed while the rain

washes the burnt-out city

leaving only the longing

 

as the walls cuddle up close above us

 

3.

 

often i remember how we

drank coffee under the bridge

you would hold the glow between your fingers

 

as the river bent its back —

breaking

 

4.

 

when we hid in the church i saw

a swan fly over your head

— what was that, what...?

— nothing, nothing at all

already in this long dying, it's as beautiful as it gets

Translation: Rimas Užgiris

only sleep just sleep

the little death

when it's such a september —

i don't see, but i hear

that the snow is getting closer and closer

 

sutures through the night,

through my dream, a dog is shepherded

away from me, from me

to where the lights

and life are more —

 

the lord is shelling acorns through the window

and we think it's snowing

and we dance, and dance, and laugh

and forget that we died

and are raising children,

raising poppies in the fog,

the humidity leaves us wrinkle-free

 

still, something is lacking

that can't yet be named, snow

 

not even cold, it's just a big dog

taking a bite out of tranquility

Translation: Rimas Užgiris

Every night. about three, somewhere

on Vilnius Street we would stand in the rain

and they would gather, start pushing,

 

windows and bodies would break,

blood would mix with asphalt, sidewalks,

stones flew by our heads as

 

the police arrived and stood aside,

an ambulance would gather the fallen,

dress wounds, sew up loose ends,

 

those fit for battle always came back...

we would stand in this meat-grinder —

she would press closer

 

and we would talk about little fishes,

about the threads of smoke rising from our cigarettes,

about the fox in the snow, about trains

 

and how you can predict the weather

by their clamor, how you can rock

in a boat, wake up in the same city,

 

about how you can drink tea

from a single cup, breathe underwater,

but mostly we would talk

 

about those little fish at the north pole,

and about snow; we would look at each other,

our mouths shut tight, and the sun would rise

Translation: Rimas Užgiris