Lives Journal 2

Franko Bushich

 

FUNERAL

(haibun)

 

In memory of Tonchi Litovich »Slovenian«

 

Funeral of an acquaintance in a hell hot summer. I walk in a heap of people. My dark shirt sticks to my sweaty, sunburnt body. I am observing the mob – big funeral – hypocrisy of the west culture.

 

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

of Valentine Armani

 

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

north mountain

 

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.

 

Funny crowd

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

cheerful fisherman

 

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.

 

Insincere hyena

under the guise of sadness

hides a giggle

 

 

Translated from Croatian by Lana Marich Shtimac

 

 

 

Slovenian (gajica)

Slovenian (bohorichica)