Poem
Linda Maria Baros
NO FIXED ADDRESS
The aged, the grown-up city children, crawl on their stomachs,
they enter their houses of cardboard, on the pavements,
and grub about in the corners,
as if already preparing their place underground.
They hang out on a blocked drainage exit
(which is how they strengthen their links with the depths),
like giant chickens
brooding over their flowers, putridity.
The grown-up, aged children of the city, crawl on their stomachs
and spit into the whitman of the street
as if into a soup.
The god of drainage systems envelops them
carefully in a cloud, like angels.
© Translation: 2008, Stephen Romer
DAKLOOS
De oude lui, grote stadskinderen, kruipen plat op hun buik,ze gaan hun kartonnen huis op de trottoirs binnen
en wriemelen in hoekjes en gaatjes
alsof ze zich nu al een plaatsje onder de aarde willen verschaffen.
Ze scharrelen rond op omrookte rioolroosters
(aldus versterken ze hun banden met de diepte),
als reuzenkippen
die broeden op hun bloemen, de schimmel.
De grote lui, oude stadskinderen, kruipen plat op hun buik
en spuwen in de whitman van de straat
alsof ze spuwen in een pan soep.
De buizengod hult ze
zorgvuldig in een wolk, als engelen.
© Vertaling: 2008, Micha J. Knijn
SDF
Les vieux, les grands enfants de la ville, rampent à plat ventre,
ils entrent dans leur maison de carton, sur les trottoirs,
et grouillent dans les recoins,
comme s’ils voulaient déjà se faire une place sous la terre.
Ils se traînent sur une bouche de canalisation embuée
(c’est ainsi qu’ils renforcent leurs liens avec les profondeurs),
comme des poules géantes
qui couvent leurs fleurs, la moisissure.
Les grands, les vieux enfants de la ville, rampent à plat ventre
et crachent dans le whitman de la rue
comme dans une soupe.
Le dieu des canalisations les enveloppe
soigneusement dans un nuage, comme des anges.
© 2008, Linda Maria Baros
From: L’Autoroute A4 et d’autres poèmes (not yet published)
From: L’Autoroute A4 et d’autres poèmes (not yet published)
Poems
Poems of Linda Maria Baros
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NO FIXED ADDRESS
The aged, the grown-up city children, crawl on their stomachs,
they enter their houses of cardboard, on the pavements,
and grub about in the corners,
as if already preparing their place underground.
They hang out on a blocked drainage exit
(which is how they strengthen their links with the depths),
like giant chickens
brooding over their flowers, putridity.
The grown-up, aged children of the city, crawl on their stomachs
and spit into the whitman of the street
as if into a soup.
The god of drainage systems envelops them
carefully in a cloud, like angels.
© 2008, Stephen Romer
From: L’Autoroute A4 et d’autres poèmes (not yet published)
From: L’Autoroute A4 et d’autres poèmes (not yet published)
NO FIXED ADDRESS
The aged, the grown-up city children, crawl on their stomachs,
they enter their houses of cardboard, on the pavements,
and grub about in the corners,
as if already preparing their place underground.
They hang out on a blocked drainage exit
(which is how they strengthen their links with the depths),
like giant chickens
brooding over their flowers, putridity.
The grown-up, aged children of the city, crawl on their stomachs
and spit into the whitman of the street
as if into a soup.
The god of drainage systems envelops them
carefully in a cloud, like angels.
© 2008, Stephen Romer
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