Kārlis Vērdiņš
Dusting
The space around me shed its former skin,
and it collected in the corners as whirls of dust.
The space lives on without remembering.
I try to learn from it: I pick up the dust,
take a shower, rub off old skin.
The new pink, moist skin remembers nothing.
How else could I be sitting in that same room,
sleeping in that same bed, taking that same shower,
rubbing myself with those same hands.
Otherwise I would have to drop down in the corner,
turn to dust, end up in a black plastic sack,
wait for a Tuesday or a Saturday
when the garbage truck would come
to put me in a container and then drive on
to these same familiar streets.
I sleep in that same bed,
my forehead like a freshly swept floor,
my skin like a pink pillow-case,
and I remember nothing.
Translated by Ieva Lešinska
Page(s) 99-100
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