Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Galina Rymboe

Book of decay (fragment)

*
the black sun arises in place of the day one, carving the ground, we аwait
company; exodus – we walk by the threads of light, uncommoned, outplacing in thought.
my phone almost out of charge, I write this to record: the brink of night,
as if sticky foam tangling in the corners of eyes.
we have reached the limits.

none who is loved will open their eyes.
none who has lived through it will be the same.

red faces among jets of oil . . . scorched buildings . . .

I knew lands, where from thirst they lick the salty yellow earth,
where they kill without looking at blood,
and lands, where they save air, taking pleasure in the glare of
solar batteries,
and drink chilled prosecco under a rainbow dome . . .
we have reached the limits.

the last insects at the different ends of the earth pollinate a red brown bud:

hatred.

my phone is almost out of charge, I write to
record all this: the brink of night
is the other, with others, and again
the book of decline blasted open,
next to fire.

Het boek van de teloorgang (fragment)

*
de zon komt zwart op in plaats van helder, de wereld geselend, we wachten
op de gemeenschap; het einde – wij lopen als lichtdraden, ieder voor zich, ons van de plaatsen wegdenkend,  
mijn mobieltje is bijna leeg, ik schrijf dit om vast te leggen: de rand van de nacht,
alsof kleverig schuim in onze ooghoeken naar beneden glijdt.
we hebben de grenzen bereikt.

niemand van mijn geliefden zal de ogen openen.
niemand van de overlevenden zal dezelfde zijn.

rode gezichten in oliefonteinen . . . zwartgeblakerde gebouwen . . .

ik heb werelden gekend waar men van de dorst de zoute gele aarde likte,
waar men doodde zonder om te zien naar bloed
en werelden, waar men lucht in ere hield, genietend van de glinstering van zonnepanelen,   
waar onder een regenboogkoepel gekoelde prosecco gedronken werd . . .
we hebben de grenzen bereikt.

de laatste insecten bestuiven op verschillende uiteinden van de wereld een bruine bloemknop:

haat.

mijn mobieltje is bijna leeg, ik schrijf om vast te leggen: de rand van de nacht
anders, in ander gezelschap, en alweer
het boek der teloorgang dat open is gespat,
vlakbij het vuur.

Книги Упадка [Фрагмент]

*
чёрное солнце вместо дневного всходит, иссекая землю, мы ждём
сообщества; исход — мы идём нитями света, без общего, отмыслившись от мест,
мой мобильник почти разряжен, я пишу это, чтобы зафиксировать: край ночи,
словно липкая пена скатывается в уголках глаз.
мы достигли пределов.

никто из любимых не откроет глаза.
никто из выживших не будет прежним.

красные лица в фонтанах нефти… обгоревшие здания…

я знала земли, где от жажды лижут солёную жёлтую землю,
где убивают, не глядя на кровь,
и земли, где сберегают воздух, наслаждаясь бликами солнечных батарей,
пьют прохладное просекко под радужным куполом…
мы достигли пределов.

последние насекомые на разных концах земли опыляют бурый бутон:

ненависть.

мой мобильник почти разряжен, я пишу чтобы зафиксировать: край ночи
другой, с другими, и снова
книга упадка взорвана,
вблизи от огня.
Close

Book of decay (fragment)

*
the black sun arises in place of the day one, carving the ground, we аwait
company; exodus – we walk by the threads of light, uncommoned, outplacing in thought.
my phone almost out of charge, I write this to record: the brink of night,
as if sticky foam tangling in the corners of eyes.
we have reached the limits.

none who is loved will open their eyes.
none who has lived through it will be the same.

red faces among jets of oil . . . scorched buildings . . .

I knew lands, where from thirst they lick the salty yellow earth,
where they kill without looking at blood,
and lands, where they save air, taking pleasure in the glare of
solar batteries,
and drink chilled prosecco under a rainbow dome . . .
we have reached the limits.

the last insects at the different ends of the earth pollinate a red brown bud:

hatred.

my phone is almost out of charge, I write to
record all this: the brink of night
is the other, with others, and again
the book of decline blasted open,
next to fire.

Book of decay (fragment)

*
the black sun arises in place of the day one, carving the ground, we аwait
company; exodus – we walk by the threads of light, uncommoned, outplacing in thought.
my phone almost out of charge, I write this to record: the brink of night,
as if sticky foam tangling in the corners of eyes.
we have reached the limits.

none who is loved will open their eyes.
none who has lived through it will be the same.

red faces among jets of oil . . . scorched buildings . . .

I knew lands, where from thirst they lick the salty yellow earth,
where they kill without looking at blood,
and lands, where they save air, taking pleasure in the glare of
solar batteries,
and drink chilled prosecco under a rainbow dome . . .
we have reached the limits.

the last insects at the different ends of the earth pollinate a red brown bud:

hatred.

my phone is almost out of charge, I write to
record all this: the brink of night
is the other, with others, and again
the book of decline blasted open,
next to fire.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère