IF YOU WERE TO GET A JOB
If you were to get a job
you'd become some kind of big shot
and give me a job in turn.
Then your head would swell,
and I'd suffer.
It's better that you don't get a job,
that we continue to live here
--in the cardboard box.
I only need bread and milk
and a blanket to cover our limbs.
Poor us, we are all kings
when we gaze at the starry sky.
The noise of the crowd grows faint
on the town square and in our blood.
The voice will re-enter the angel's trumpet.
Once again hell will rise on its feet.
translated from the Serbian by Charles Simic
Dark Things (BOA Editions, 2009)
© by Gardabelle