Red Balloon

By Danny Abse

It sailed across the startled town,
over chapels, over chimney-pots,
wind-blown above a block of flats
before it floated down.

Oddly it landed where I stood,
and finding’s keeping, as you know.
I breathed on it, I polished it,
Till it shone like living blood.

It was my shame, it was my joy,
it brought me notoriety.
From all of Wales the rude boys came,
it ceased to be a toy.

I heard the girls in Cardiff sigh
when my balloon, my red balloon,
soared higher like a happiness
towards the dark blue sky.

Nine months since, have I boasted of
my unique, my only precious;
but to no one dare I show it now
however long they swear their love.

‘It’s a Jew’s balloon,’ my best friend cried
‘stained with our dear Lord’s blood.’
‘That I’m a Jew is true.’ I said,
said I, ‘that cannot be denied.’

‘What relevance?’ I asked, surprised,
‘what’s religion to do with this?’
‘Your red balloon’s a Jew’s balloon,
let’s get it circumcised.’

Then some boys laughed and some boys cursed,
some unsheathed their dirty knives;
some lunged, some clawed at my balloon,
but still it would not burst.

They bled my nose, they cut my eye,
half conscious in the street I heard,
‘Give up, give up your red balloon.’
I don’t know exactly why.

Father, bolt the door, turn the key,
lest those sad, brash boys return
to insult my faith and steal
my red balloon from me.

Balonul rosu

Vaslea-n vazduhul targului uimit
cu cosnite si turle, si impins
de vant deasupra unui bloc
pana a poposit.

Si ce-am gasit al meu sa fie
cand, ce ciudat, in mana-mi a facut popas
l-am curatat, l-am lustruit
pe teasta-i lucie sangerie.

Era rusinea-mi si-ncantare de noroc
cu totii ma stiau.
Din tot tinutul se-mbulzeau baietii
si n-a mai fost doar joc.

Caci fiecare fata suspina
dupa balonul, roscovanul meu balon
cand ca o fericire spre azuru-nchis
el se-nalta.

De noua luni incoace m-am mandrit
cu unicul, nepretuitul;
dar nu cutez acum sa-l arat nimanui
oricat i-ar fi amorul de vadit.

‘Balonul de-ovreu’ prietenu-mi zbiera
‘patat cu sange de Mantuitor’
‘Ca sunt ovreu i-adevarat’ i-am spus
zis-am ‘e lucru fara de tagada.’

‘Ce importanta?’ l-intrebai mirat
‘ce-are religia-a face?’
‘Balonu-ti rosu e balon de-ovreu
si trebuie imprejur taiat.’

Apoi unii baieti au ras, iar altii-au suduit
altii si-au scos cutitele murdare;
s-au repezit sa-mi zgarie basica
dar n-a pocnit.

Crestatu-mi-au un ochi si nasul bleg
Si mort pe jumatate-i auzeam
‘Preda, preda odata rosul tau balon’
de ce, tot nu-nteleg.

Zavoara, tata, usa,-ntoarce cheia-n ea
sa nu se-ntoarca baietanii tristi si rai
sa-mi injoseasc-a mea credinta si
balonul sa mi-l ia.
 

Translated by Ileana Grama