Bogomil Gjuzel: Heretic


The stars scattered like dice
And the sky troubled by a fearful pattern
Shipwrecks men and saints
The thorny wreath of oblivion does not save them.

Hell’s pot boils, spilling over the filth
Boyars, priests, beggars slurp up the thick soup
No one’s spoon is long enough
To scrape greasy salvation’s bottom.

Brothers, we have gone through to the end
Munched fire, thrown a new ball
On the roulette of the sky. From every direction
The void between stars blows our sails,

A breeze keeps away the mold
From our open and simple tombs.
A new constellation will appear in our nothingness
Just as a worm was born in your faith.

Translated by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra

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