ALAN BROWNJOHN

“In this city...”

In this city, perhaps a street.
In this street, perhaps a house.
In this house, perhaps a room
And in this room a woman sitting,
Sitting in the darkness, sitting and crying
For someone who has just gone through the door
And who has just switched off the light
Forgetting she was there.

***

ALAN BROWNJOHN

In asta urbe

Intr-asta urbe, pe-o oarecare strada.
Pe asta strada, intr-o oarecare casa,
In asta casa, intr-o oarecare camera, poate,
Si in asta camera, o femeie stand.
Acolo, pe-ntuneric stand, planganda,
Dupa cineva care doar ce-a iesit pe usa,
Si doar ce-a stins lumina,
Uitand de ea, acolo.

 

***

Ballad for a Birthday

I cleaned up the house, and moved the telephone;
I had a look to see if the plant had grown;
I put Tiddles outside, and sat on my own:
I feel the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

I arranged my dresses on laundry hooks;
I pulled out the table and set out my books;
I went to the window for just one or two looks:
I feel the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

I wanted coffee, so I marked the page;
It should have been over when it got to this stage;
Can I be the same girl at a different age?
I feel the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

What if he phoned, and I heard the bell
With my feet on the bath-tap, and I couldn’t tell...
Well, I heard it...should I answer it as well?
I fell the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

If he wrote a letter, saying Could we meet,
Or if we met by accident, in the street
– When something’s finished, is it always complete?
I feel the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

If he drove round here and knocked on the door,
Would I answer his questions, let him ask me more,
Or could I tell him I was absolutely sure...?
-- Oh, I feel the same, but I wouldn’t want to call it love.

Balada unei zile de nastere

Am dereticat prin casa, telefonul am mutat,
La plante, de-au crescut, o privire-am aruncat,
Afara am scos pe Tiddles, insingurata am stat.
Nu simt nimic, dar nici nu vreau iubire s-o numesc.

Imbracamintea pe umerase-am aranjat,
Mi-am tras masa, cartile le-am sortat,
Spre geam o privire s-arunc m-am indreptat.
Nu simt nimic, dar nici nu vreau iubire s-o numesc.

Am vrut o cafea, asa ca pagina am insemnat,
Trebuia, odata totul ajuns aici, sa se fi terminat.
Oare voi fi eu aceeasi candva, alta dat’?
Nu simt nimic, dar nici nu vreau iubire s-o numesc.

Ce-ar fi ca el sa sune, sa aud soneria,
In timp ce sunt in baie! Sa spun n-as putea…
Si iata c-am auzit-o… Oare sa raspund trebuia?
Nu simt nimic, dar nici nu vreau iubire s-o numesc.

De-ar scrie o scrisoare, intreband Ne-am putea vedea
Sau ne-am putea intalni pe strada, undeva…
Cand ceva ia sfarsit, ramane oare asa?
Nu simt nimic, dar nici nu vreau iubire s-o numesc.

De-ar veni aici si ar bate la usa,
Oare i-as raspunde la tot ce m-ar intreaba, l-as lasa sa-ntrebe altceva,
Sau sa-i spun as putea ca eram deja absolut sigura?
Nu simt nimic, dar nici nu vreau iubire s-o numesc.

Translated by Dana Avram