Sunday 25 August 2019

Plovdiv

by Laus Strandby Nielsen



There are no clouds over Plovdiv
today. They all followed Orpheus

down to the dark where they were late
for the concert. What should they do?

The door to the music was closed. Or-
pheus, Orpheus himself sounded like

an echo you could hear but faintly.
There was scarcely room for them

all in this uppermost part of the under-
world in which they had landed, just

like a flock of desperate refugees
before a bristling barbed wire fence,

so did they huddle together not knowing
inside from out. Here the transformation

took place: the clouds flowed like water
down to the underworld, making chaos

and mud. For a long time, Orpheus kept
his singing head above the hazardous

mud, but his mouth was filled,
his eyes and ears, and when at last

through the mud he heard the beloved’s
whisper like a strangely bubbling sound,

it was too late. Too late is the not
so cheerful motto of this story.


Der er ingen skyer over Plovdiv
i dag. De fulgte alle efter Orpheus

ned i mørket hvor de kom for sent
til koncerten. Hvad skulle de gøre?

Døren til musikken var lukket. Or-
pheus, selveste Orpheus lød som

et ekko man kun svagt kunne høre.
Der var næsten ikke plads til dem

alle i denne øverste del af under-
verdenen hvor de var havnet, ganske

som en flok fortvivlede flygtninge
foran et hegn af flænsende pigtråd,

sådan trykkede de sig sammen og
vidste hverken ud eller ind. Her skete

forvandlingen: skyerne flød som vand
ned i underverdenen, skabende kaos

og mudder. Længe holdt Orpheus sit
syngende hoved oven over det farlige

mudder, men hans mund blev fyldt op,
hans øjne og ører, og da han til sidst

gennem mudderet hørte den elskedes
hvisken som en underligt boblende lyd,

da var det for sent. For sent er det ikke
så muntre motto for denne fortælling.


translated from Danish by David McDuff

from Laus Strandby Nielsen: -- og andre steder, Asger Schnacks Forlag, 2019