ATEENA KOERAD

Poem By Maarja Kangro

Plákas, Akropoli ümbruses,
muudest kantidest rääkimata,
longib ja magab neid ohtrasti.
Suured, malbed, viisakad koerad.

Koolilapse õhinaga
tõlgime tuttavat sügavat keelt,
mina teen koertest pilti:
kollastest, valgetest, mustadest.

„Mitte ühtegi pisikest pole."
Sa lööd särama justkui teadlane:
„Väikesed on kõik juba surnud!"
Sinised silmad on elevil.

Mandel oli kunagi mürgine,
hernes imetillukene,
inimene väike verejanuline kränn!
Või kuidas?

Oleme oma eellastest suuremad.
Ja me kaks - iseäranis viisakad.
„Miskit melanhoolset
on neis ellujäänud penides."

„Kenad koerad sõid teised ära?"
Istume ja sööme õhtust
küünikute mälestuseks (ikka nende õigete)
ja viisakate koerte terviseks.

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In the hot garden of the Peggy
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stands a sculpture by Anish Kapoor,
a dark grey granite block.

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only for drinks, of course.
Oh, isn't that -! Oh, hello.
I observe his eyes, his neck,

Come into my cave, Matter!

On the manor house clad in scaffolding,
a flag is waving like a rag.
A national flag. Torn and shabby,
it doesn't care which nation it belongs to.

The dogs of athens

In Pláka, around the Acropolis,
not to mention elsewhere,
multitudes stroll and sleep.
Big dogs. Gentle, polite.

Asbestos

So, as a child, you say?
You jumped,
and the pile of Eternit cracked?
Blue sneakers, white chrysotile.

Maya Angelou

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