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Faruk Šehić
2007 According to Gargano
W
hen
Gargano
called
me,
hastily tapping
in Morse code on the inside
of my skin, I knew it was
something serious and his
tongue was just itching – he
needed to confess.
I have to talk to you, town,
because
you’re
always
present in my memory, and
it is the only paradise from
which I can’t be expelled,
the poet says. You’re now a
phantom town and your name
is insignificant. You could
also be called Zyx, but that
wouldn’t change anything
for the better. Your dwellers
walk the streets stooped
and in constant fear of the
weather’s whims, of the sky
that often changes its mood
over the decisive days from
the end of May to the middle
of June. The favourite topic of
idle coffee-house creatures,
pensioners and young men is
death in all its facets. Death
comes from above and bears
people away regardless of
their years. It takes them up
to the hanging gardens of
heaven, among the concentric
circles, thrones, divinities and
cherubim, so say the holy
books. Death is your most
developed industry and here
you’re peerless. You’re now
a phantom town. As soon as
swirling, coal-black clouds
darken the horizon, everyone