It is drizzling outside. One half of the city is underwater, the other one wounded, floats across the city lake. A bird hits the half-opened shutter. Third one so far. By my side lays the book for Brueghel which I borrowed (the other day). I recall the “Fall of Icarus”. Strange as it is but I cannot think about Brueghel and as an association to his name to stand up Williams’.

“According to Brueghel
When Icarus fell
It was spring.”

Inside, I look for the painting. It’s missing. Beside it I look at “The Hunters in the snow”. This, incidentally, might be the tenth time as I’m seeing it.  A few times with Olivia and several by myself.  I’m starting to believe that this foretells me something apocalyptic. Perhaps the winter. Whatever…

The drizzling stopped. I’m going outside. The city, over-hanged by dark clouds and fog, parades it’s apparitions through the misty boulevards. It smells like winter. The frosty wind is pushing itself from the buildings. The ice quickly covers the edges of the sidewalks. I’m walking on the street which descends in the heart of downtown. I’m not quite sure where this road will take me. I’m sensing how through the smoggy and hazy curtains a pack of tired and starved hounds follow me. I’m trembling from fear and I stand still, but luckily the hounds didn’t notice me and ran pass me. I’m watching how three armed hunters follow them. Ravens are flying overhead. The hunters aim and fire a couple of shots. One of which breaks the glass. Fortunately I remain myself unnoticed. I’m deciding to keep walking through the dense fog and hide somewhere safe. I find the nearest store and I go inside. Through the window I can see how the starved hounds and the hunters are fading away. The salesman lies dead. I’m terrified and I return home in haste.

A raven, clearly lost in the fog, hits the window, crushes the glass and half-dead falls inside the room. Whiteness starts to fill in the interior. I notice a message on the raven’s leg.

Don’t go outside, I’m dreaming of the Hunters, they satisfy their hunger, they are transcending the defeat…

                                                                                                                                                                                            Olivia 

I lock the door. Breughel’s book is still on the table. The ravens are hosting themselves in the room. I’m making tea and take comfort in my chair. Happy to be alive.  Waiting for her waking.

Translated by: Dimitar Stojkovski

Photo: “The Hunters in the snow”. 1565. Pieter Bruegel (also Brueghel).

This post is also available in: Macedonian