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samedi 6 octobre 2018

Bohdan-Ihor Antonytch, Les Cimetières mécaniques

Bohdan-Ihor Antonych
Graveyards of cars

Piskorsky, Forêt, 1918






In a graveyard of machines, dead cars sleep like hunks of fractured stars,
red flowers of mold mark time rusted into metal,
only the sun’s unknown nucleus still rocks like an eternal truth
we can’t grasp, like the blue essence of benzene.

Like jackals, human scavengers rend the metal corpses,
merchandising their poverty and greed in the marketplace,
and in gas-colored nights the metal corpses are beds of love
for cripples and whores, funnels for the fumes of the spiked stars.

As we dig the bones of pangolins out from beneath the scored rock,
so men will unearth the metal bones of our cities.
Girls wearing nameless flowers, palmtrees growing bread, green rue,
rising cities with sky-blue squares where fire-lions cavort,
and the edgy shadows, shaky phantoms,
get up from under the earth, squares, grass.

Metropolis,
drop the palms of your brick walls over the eyes of these cars forever.

Bohdan-Ihr Antonytch par Youry Kokh, 2006







Translated by Mark Rudman (with the collaboration of Bohdan Boychuk)

Bohdan [-Ihor] Antonych, Selected Poetry, Ardis, Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA, 1977


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