In memory of Tonchi Litovich »Slovenian«
Those who do not love
the one who died
have come to cry
Women and girls cry affectedly, the faces of men are serious and severe, they arc all here for a mere formality. They come to be seen, they come to be found, (hey come to show the new clothes. They come because the others also come. But all in vain. The dead had no friend. The dead can not see them any more. The dead laughs no more, and their clothes do not mean anything to him.
Here are the saddened
in black suits
The melancholic music of a brass band, gold trumpet and its sound – are fascinating. The sound of trumpet directs us and leads us. It hypnotises. It increases and decreases simulated emotions of the mass, producing sometimes sobbing and sometimes constraint. Play the trumpeter of the north tower, the sweetheart does not call the dead any more ... she will never call him again. Play the trumpeter on the hill, above the sea. Let the tender breeze carry the sound of your trumpet.
The sounds of trumpet
give out smell of
We are moving along the promenade of a small Mediterranean village. The mob moves slowly as Saturn. I hear the woman behind me – she curses, her shoe pinches. The waiters in white shirts carry the corpse in a coffin. Little fickle girls arc crying and screaming, although I remember how they commented his death. The heartless women are weeping – for a mere formality, only for a mere formality. Tradition and cultural moralise, the screaming, slimy hypocrisy, the epic of insincerity.
kills the boredom
pretending they are sad
Play the trumpeter of the west tower. Let the sound of your trumpet bring the rage of Gods from remote volcanoes. Play the trumpeter. Let your trumpet present the call of wolves and coldness of the far North. Play the trumpeter. Play gently, you are not playing for the audience. Play gently. Play without pomp. You play only for him.
The one who knows
How to ride the sound
does not need the company
They are putting the coffin into the ground. The trumpets are calm. The women who hardly exchanged greetings with him are screaming and sobbing. The women who despised him are crying and screaming. They want to prove their femininity and maternity. Maybe they are watched by their future husbands. Maybe the conscience stings them.
When somebody dies
the mob is afraid of
the uncertainty of the destiny
Play the trumpeter proudly. Play with style. Let the fragile pine needles, carried by the sound of your trumpet, fall into the sepulchre. Play the trumpeter about the insensible world, about the monstrous woman and about an ugly flower. Play the trumpeter beneath the pine tree where his dead body was hanging. Play the trumpeter, the body of a young man hanged, because of his darling – who wasn't his darling at all.
He killed himself because of
ove that was not given back
What can a man like him offer to such a woman? Unfortunately, nothing except love. Unfortunately, she has all except love and, unfortunately, the last she needs is love.
Play the trumpeter. Howl the mountain wolf. Let your melancholic song soar up to the sea like a wind. Let your song lick and break the branches of the cypress. Like a north wind. Like a hurricane. Let it take away her black hair and the smile from her lips.
under the guise of sadness
hides a giggle
Translated from Croatian by Lana Marich Shtimac