Anni Sumaritranslated by David McDuffTrash, straw, spring ice.The fields creak on their hingesand fold open like a cargo hatch, for a momentI can see straight into hell. There is nothing down there. Just as I thought. Except bodies,clean and smooth as porcelain, their surfaces tattooed all overwith those little blue flowers that people are encouragedto paint on porcelain painting courses. Lies tol ...
Anni Sumari
translated by David McDuff
Trash, straw, spring ice. The fields creak on their hinges and fold open like a cargo hatch, for a moment I can see straight into hell. There is nothing down there. Just as I thought. Except bodies, clean and smooth as porcelain, their surfaces tattooed all over with those little blue flowers that people are encouraged to paint on porcelain painting courses. Lies told to others always have a reason, but the lies told to myself make me ashamed. Nothing at all. In the nearby village the roofs get goose-bumps from the rain’s touch and giant flowers multiply. Chimneys wander to and fro in their narrow spaces. The people sit in their wet coats without moving, as if that way they get less wet than the park benches and the chairs.
If now you raise the hatch, lie down on the earth and let the field slam shut on you, you will never be able to come back. Trash. The remains of last fall. Tales told to children.
Three jesting Fates, green-scaled, bulge out from the roof shingles of the old church, laughing, playing. There is no question of mercy for a long time now. On the onion dome opposite three golden archers blossom silently, humourless, as if cast in