MAIDS
by: Aleksandar Ristović
(translated by Charles Simic)


One is in the cellar,
the other one is in the attic.
One carries a lamp and a platter into the dark room
   for guests sensitive to cold,
the other sits behind the house
staring at the moon rising over the nearby trees.
One travels by the village bus forty kilometers through a
   snowstorm,
the other tries to light a fire while sitting on
   the iron bed next to her mother, who is already
   seeing angels like hundreds and hundreds of fireflies.
One weeds the onions, waters the garden, chases a chicken,
the other stands by the window holding before her face
   a rose-colored leaf that gives off no scent.
One is at the table where she diligently polishes
   dishes, knives, spoons, and forks,
while a bee (which flew in through the window) in vain
   tries to find a way out bumping into the curtain
   and the pane,
and the other one smokes strong tobacco
with some good-for-nothing from the neighborhood, constantly
   raising and lowering her eyes.
But soon the night will be here,
and both of them will find themselves in their own beds,
one with a novel on her knees lit by the table lamp,
the other one already dreaming the first dream of that night:
   in which she sees the seashore, the thin line of waves,
   and herself losing pieces of her clothing one by one,
   while walking with greater and greater speed toward
   someone whose face is hidden by a shaddow of an almost
   imaginary rose.