Between Aachen and Zyryanka, between Samarinda and Samarkanda, up and down on the prow
on the violet strait
between Kérkyra and Saranda,
on the train between Vladivostok and Moscow which seven times crosses the dawn,
cutting through, journeying forth,
from a blissful silence as the seagull dives into the foam of Antofagasta
to a multilingual expletive
as my foot charges into the manhole, between Baden Baden and Bahrain, between Fort-de-France and Port of Spain, cruising at a hundred and thirty
along the three thousand miles
between Portland, Oregon and Portland, Maine,
from the skewers of a Scottish chill stabbing at the cheeks to the lips drying out in the sand-bearing wind
of Marseille,
sailing on, sailing on
between Zuwarah and Lampedusa on a boat splitting into two, with pressing voices, with smothered throats
searching for the ears of the night.
Between Ceylon and Sri Lanka,
fid-dwana tar-Rwanda b’identità titbandal
bejn l-offerta u d-domanda,
bejn déjà vu ġo pjazza li qatt ma smajt biha miksija bil-ward tal-jacaranda
u mitluf fit-toroq ta’ belt imdawla li m’ilix li dort,
xi ħaġa aktar dinjija min-nostalġija
għal gżira li qatt ma żort tirkibni rqiq qalb il-ħamba tal-ajruport,
fis-sala tal-istennija bil-moħbi ta’ missierha
tifla żgħira tpinġilu pajjiżi ġodda fil-paġni vojta
tal-passaport,
imħarbat, bil-marbat, bi stonku jkarwat,
mill-kefir li dardarni fit-tidlik ta’ Madrid għall-idejn ratba tar-raħlija Sorbjana li ġabitni f’tiegħi bi skutella soljanka, bejn tronk u wati, bejn fietel u bati, b'dejn ma' mgħoddi li ma jridx jgħaddi
bejn ġimgħa tidħol f'ġimgħa u nhar t'Erbgħa farradi, stordut u mtarrax fid-diskors marradi
ta’ bejn ġixt Għewiedex u żewġt Imlati, bejn iċ-ċentru u l-irkejjen,
bejn wiċċ u rġejjen, bis-saħta tad-dubji tiegħi
at the Rwandan customs with an identity swinging between offer and demand,
between a déjà vu in a square I’ve never heard of carpeted in jacaranda petals
and lost in the streets of an illuminated city I roamed not long ago,
something more worldly than nostalgia
for an island I’ve never visited subtly invades me in the hubbub of the airport,
waiting at the gate
away from her father’s gaze, a little girl draws new countries in the empty pages
of his passport,
disarranged, berthed down, with a thundering stomach,
from the kefir that upset me in the sweat of Madrid to the soft hands of the Serbian village girl
who brought me back on my feet with a bowl of soljanka, between grave and acute, between lukewarm and tepid, indebted to a past that will not go by
between a week straddling a week and an odd Wednesday, dazed and deafened in the distressing discourse
between two Gozos and two Maltas, between the centre and the corners, between heads and tails,
with the curse of my doubts for ever and ever,
sprawled out on the fragrant leaves of grass with the sunlight reflecting on the open book
tal-kampung,
bejn logogramma tgħajjat fiċ-China Daily u sentenza tisserrep bla ħniena
fil-Mallorca Zeitung,
inqalleb fid-dizzjunarju tal-but ħa niddeċifra l-aħbar:
ajruplan jixxerraħ żugraga tnewwaħ
f’burraxka bejn il-Brażil u s-Senegal, magħsur fil-garġi gravitazzjonali xita ta’ ruttam u ta’ iġsma inġazzati għal fuq il-baħar kristall
tal-ekwatur.
Intraduċibbli nqum mirjieħ u msaħħab,
bejn mappa mxappa bil-linka u lsien imqaħħab, id-demm jitliegħeb għall-ftuħ, il-fwied imtaqqab, bejn xagħra u sufa, bejn in-nasba u l-guva, mix-xemx tiltaqa’ miegħi ma’ tarf is-sodda għall-wiċċ bajdani ta’ mħabbti
b'idejha fuq ġufha,
bejn ‘l hawn u ‘l hemm u ‘l hinn u lura bejn sormi mikxuf u ruħi mistura bejn ġej u sejjer u viċiversa
bejn dritt għall-punt u tidwira mal-lewża bejn minnu u mhux,
bejn l-anġli u l-uħux,
bejn m’għadux u għad m’hux u bil-maqlub bil-waħx ta’ nfiħ ir-riħ minn bejn l-arbli
of the kampung,
between a screaming logogram in the China Daily and a mercilessly snaking sentence
in the Mallorca Zeitung,
I leaf through the pocket dictionary to decipher the news:
a shredding aeroplane a shrieking spinning-top
in a storm between Brazil and Senegal, squashed in the gravitational gullet rain of scrap and of frozen bodies onto the crystal sea
of the equator.
Untranslatable I awake windy and cloudy,
between an ink-soaked map and a prostituted tongue, the blood sweltering for the open, the liver riddled with holes,
between a hair and a bristle, between the trap and the birdhouse,
from the sun meeting me at the foot of the bed to the pale white face of my love
with her hands on her womb,
between here and there and beyond and back between my arse uncovered and my soul concealed between coming and going and vice versa
between straight to the point and about the bush between true and not,
between the angels and the ghouls,
between no longer and not yet and the other way ‘round with the terror of the wind amid the flagstaffs
bi frustier iħarisli fil-mera dix-xibka ta’ wiċċi mixquq
mill-aħmar tat-tapit mifrux ma’ twelidna għall-kefen abjad silġ li jgħattina mad-difna bejn fra u tra, de-ci, de-là,
ανάµεσα , 之间 , между , zwischen the perpetual indecision
of a clear preposition
bejn ma ninsabx ġo posti u posti ġo fija bejn f’sikkti mill-ġdid u mitluf minn sensija miexi b’pass meqjus
minn fruntiera għal fruntiera, minn meridian għal meridjan tad-dinja priġuniera,
bejn imnejn u lejn, bejn lejn u safejn, fiċ-ċentru ta’ kollox u ma' xifer ix-xejn,
fir-riġlejn il-ħeġġa, l-uġigħ fil-ġenbejn, indur, naqsam it-triq
u nibqa' għaddej, nittanta nifhem l-għalfejn tal-fejn.
I have an antenna that climbed to the mountains of the moon
between departure and arrival, between arrival and departure,
with all windows wide open, with the sky overcast, with a stranger at the mirror examining
the netting of my cracked face
from the red of the carpet rolled out at our birth to the ice-white shroud that covers us at the burial between fra and tra, de-ci, de-là,
ανάµεσα , 之间 , между , zwischen the perpetual indecision
of a clear preposition
between not in my place and my place within me between back to my senses and out of my mind walking with sure feet
from border to border, from meridian to meridian of the prisoner world, between from and towards, between towards and to, at the centre of all
and at the edge of nothing,
the legs full of verve, pain in the sides, I turn, cross the road
and continue on my way, trying to comprehend the why
of where.
NEELI CHERKOVSKI