FIVE LETTER NAME
VIDAK M. MASLOVARIĆ
Someone asked me: Do you have anything written about the Danube?
I replied: I keep it all in my heart. Every drop saved
for the new, better times, for sizzling days, the distances,
for the shipwrecked dream embroiled in a vine and
in a flawed curse of the boatmen tanned by the long waiting
to silently trail over His waters the frayed moonlight
with a scent of mud, worn-out bones of drowned souls
and the nets that fishermen will never pull back.
Everything about Him is written in the ancient tome, into which
the book-besotted Reader adds words day after day,
convinced that the meanings will not perish along the hillsides,
to which He’s owed for centuries at least one imprint of serenity.
They asked me: Do you have anything written about the Danube?
I said, yes, I have: His five letter name and two wounds
that I cannot heal, two despairs between the two banks,
two remorses for I rarely mention Him, and only at celebrations,
when He’s quieter than cobwebs spread between two walls,
between two restless cracks out of which always lurks
something that resembles darkness, favored by fear, overflowing
with an echo of the astonished recluse, whom nobody sees or hears.
In the story about Him I change nothing: not a shudder,
while I watch Him from nearby, unable to detect a shadow
which casually spawns over Him, but is actually – an illusion.
Nor am I the same any more. With Him, I had come and gone.