Western Voices: Daniel Pixiades

Bio:

Daniel Pixiades was born in Yugoslavia in 1931. He finished Teachers College where he was a public school teacher and wrote short stories and poetry for children and adults. In 1974 he moved to Canada with his family. In Thunder Bay (Ontario province) he worked as a housekeeper at Lakehead University and at the same time as an editor of the emigrant newspaper Naše Novine published in Toronto. As an editor of the poetry page of NN he wrote essays and critiques pertaining to the works of Yugoslavian authors. There he published most of his poems that later made up books of poetry published in Serbian. There is more about Daniel Pixiades on his web site: www.cikadanko.com

SEDIMENTS OF TRUTH

Translated from Serbian by: by J.S-Smith and Ivanka Radmanović

     How does a dog's milk taste?

     A bitterness in a dream and a song in the frozen morning

slow dying of a stone iron and power

bursting bells and their bond with justice and lying

riding on one’s own herd of shame and sickness

a breath of the timeless stench of fallacy and honor

decaying in the humiliating plunder and messages

of such malice and high accomplishments

    Because the cliffs turn to mud after melting

the sun falls apart and divides within us                                                                                                              

the sky descends to the lowest point in the stories

as if eternity wasn't created for mankind                                                                                                                    

    The catacombs of the eons crumble in the blood of the poor

in the deathbed confessions on the deathbed of millionaires

and even almighty God blinks turning a blind

when we return to our ancient form as atoms of dust

    The daughters of the pharaohs are abducted too early from splendor

roses are prone to decay and rot

owe their rage to the shadows of ignorance and shamans

and to the stupid slowness of space and the Earth

become only a sediment in the debris of present and past

beggars cripples squanderers and false prophets

on the bottom of the amphora of time mixed up and faithful to the form 

in the wonderful image of the hunger and self-combustion of a world

without which there couldn't be beginning or survival

    Hermits move like maggots in a corpse

after a peculiar ecstasy of passion and wantonness

blood flickers on the swords of deceived warriors

who return without triumph

with wounds deeper than shame                                                                                                                                

and so they become repetitive killers

and a burden to their fathers and children

because wars cannot be healed with drugs medals and money

and cannot be forgotten upon return from the battle-field

    Every wretched morning the world is without icons and saints

we are sad in our robes without the crucifix and the faith

because Christianity reached the end of sweet talk

so the end is coming to everyone

to benefactors killers innocents prostitutes

and there are no incredible miracles at the end

and no one pays off their debts

because the end is a misery which cannot be evaded

     As if we and those over there had never existed

And it’s better like that, it’s better like that, it’s better like that

In the essence                                                                                                                                             

     Because a new world is here above us who

long for change

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Western Voices :: Setu, February 2019