NIGEL WALKER

Lost Property

In the room filled with lost property
Are hundreds of umbrellas, hiding from the rain.
A toy, a comb, a cufflink,
A picture in a pinewood frame,
One trunk to which
No-one has a key and several dreams
Left on the last bus, every Friday night.

Why they remain unclaimed no-one can say.
The owners maybe never realise their loss,
And maybe never even knew they owned,
For ownership is never certain. Sometimes brief.

In one corner
A box from which
A rhythmic drumming sounds.
Human hearts,
Dusty, never touched for years.
 

Laura Persoiu

Nigel Walker
 

Obiecte pierdute
 

In camera plina de obiecte pierdute
Sunt sute de umbrele, ascunzandu-se de ploaie.
O jucarie, un pieptene, o butoniera,
O poza intr-o rama de lemn,
Un cufar de la care nimeni
Nu mai are cheia si mai multe vise
Uitate in ultimul autobuz, in fiecare seara de vineri.

De ce nimeni nu le cere, nu se poate spune.
Poate proprietarii nici nu si-au dat seama ca le lipsesc,
Si poate niciodata nu si-au dat seama ca le au,
Pentru ca dreptul de proprietate nu e niciodata sigur. Si cateodata prea scurt.

Intr-un colt
O cutie din care
Razbat batai ritmate.
Inimi de oameni
Prafuite, neatinse de ani de zile.