Donosimo poetsku prozu profesorice Lidije Lauš Leščan i prijevod na engleski dr. sc. Mateusz-Milana Stanojevića.
Lidija Lauš Leščan: PODRAVSKO LJETO
Zemlja je odavno zaboravila okus kiše.
Uzaludno je pitati putnike namjernike što znaju o tome; svi oni, pogođeni sparinom, nastoje čim prije otići dalje, bez traga. Jer, priča se da u takva vremena ni odmorišta pored rijeke nisu sigurna, mostovi su kameni prividi, a od čudnih šumova koji dopiru iz prizrelih kukuruza i ptice po krošnjama obližnjih usamljenih stabala postaju nemirne i ustrašene.
Vilenjak, željan vjetrovite svježine, u snu ispruži ruku i zagrabi vodu iz studenog izvora. Istog se časa probudi, preplanuo i žedan. Srećom, nebo je prvim naznakama rumenila obećavalo smiraj dana. On se pridiže i zagleda prema horizontu, pozdravljajući iščekivanje.
Čak se znalo dogoditi da se poneki čovjek vrati iz vinograda s pričama o neobičnim igrama svjetla i sjene po trsju, popraćenim zvucima čitave skupine glazbala što su dozrela okupana suncem. No, njima će povjerovati samo oni koji su i sami bar jednom sjedili pored stare klijeti u predvečerje, mirišući boje.
Vilenjak rasklopi dlan. Promotri malu zvijezdu koja se šćućurila na njemu i ne reče ništa. Osjeti životnu snagu izlivenu iz vrelinom sputane rijeke, niklu uz rub prašnjavih poljskih puteljaka, nakupljenu u pregrštima budućih jutara.
Neposredno ponad njih, ali neuhvatljivo daleko, klizio je mjesec, zbunjen i okrugao, nabubren od tihog srebrila. To ga je istovremeno zabavljalo i ljutilo. U jednom trenutku skrije zvijezdu sebi pod košulju i potrči naprijed, objema rukama pokušavajući dohvatiti malo srebrnog smijeha.
„Tako je to kad s vilenjakom slijediš mjesec“, šapne zvijezda jedva čujno sama sebi pa nastavi osluškivati otkucaje njegova srca.
Dobro skriven negdje u kukuruzištu, orkestar je neumorno svirao ljeto.
Lidija Lauš Leščan: PODRAVINA SUMMER
The earth has long forgotten the taste of rain.
Asking chance travellers what they know of this is of no use; affected by the swelter, they all try to get away as soon and as far as possible, leaving without a trace. At such times, rumour has it, not even rest areas by the river remain unsecure, with mirages of stony bridges, and strange noises coming from the fields of nearly ripe corn, making birds in the crowns of nearby trees restless and frightened.
An elf, craving a windy freshness, stretched out his hand in sleep to scoop up some water from a cool spring. He suddenly sprang awake both tanned and thirsty. Luckily, the first streaks of red in the sky carried a promise of twilight. He stood up, gazing into the horizon, greeting anticipation.
Once in a while, a person returning from the vineyard might even tell stories of unusual play of light and shadow on the vines, accompanied by the sounds of a whole group of instruments ripening and bathed in sun. But these stories would be believed only by those who have, at least once, sat in front of an old cottage at dusk, smelling the colours.
The elf opened his palm. He looked at a small star huddling on it, and said nothing. He felt the life energy pouring from the river, confined by the heat, stemming from the edges of dusty tracks, accumulated in the armfuls of mornings still to come.
Directly overhead, but elusively out of reach, the moon was sliding, confused, round and plump with silent slivery shimmering. This both amused and angered the elf. Suddenly, he hid the star under his shirt and set off running, trying to grasp a little of this silvery laughter.
“This is what happens when you follow the moon with an elf”, whispered the star to itself, barely audibly and continued to listen to the beating of its heart.
Remaining well hidden somewhere in the cornfield, the orchestra tirelessly played summer.
dr. sc. Mateusz-Milan Stanojević