Maja Panajotova

Sophia Yannatou and Maja Panajotova Photo: Harmut Schulz

Antwerp

I was thirteen years old

When I had this dream,

In the beginning of autumn,

At my grandmother’s in Aleksandrovo.

I found myself in an unknown street.

The houses stood closely packed in a row,

as if they wanted to snuggle up to each other.

The roofs soared up high

like medieval ladies’ hats.

Mat-frosted window-panes,

set in lead frames, trembled.

The sugar spire of a cathedral

was melting away in the low grey mist.

The rain the tolling of bells filled up

the narrow streets and tiny squares.

Men with faces like Albrecht Duerer’s

passed by, their beards like shrubs

soaking up the raindrops.

Over flowers, vegetables and birds

red-cheeked salesmen cried out

raw diphthongizes and grating sounds.

Then I arrived at the cemetery.

In between the stone angels I read

on one of the weather-beaten tombstones

my own name.

So far from our house in Aleksandrovo.

It was the first time I came to Antwerp.

Maja Panajotova

Trs. Andriette Stathi-Schoorel 18.8.95

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