Izigravanja

1
Na svoje mesto stopim kot lačen volk,
ne zaradi budnosti, ampak zaradi spanja.
Tukaj je tisto, k čemur se bom nekoč vrnil,
utrujen od rezanja valov na tako drobne koščke,
da že verjameš, da iz vsakega zraste dlaka,
ki še malo poglobi razliko med dnevom in nočjo.
Da se bom vrnil, ne pomeni,
da sem tukaj že kdaj bil.
Kjer sem bil, nisem bil še nikoli:
v tej sobi, v katerikoli sobi,
na točki, kjer nebo postaja postane kaplja krvi
in se v njej brnenje nekih idej za zmeraj umiri,
sredi travnika, čez katerega živali stopajo
z umerjenim in usklajenim korakom.
Obrnem list in obrnem glavo,
ujamem odhajanje zadnjih idej,
ne v litanijah noči, ne v bazenih molka,
vznemirjenost prihranjena za kako drugo podvojitev.
Nobene ideje se ne da ujeti z rokami,
še tako drobne, kot se vtisne v pogled,
bežne kot leta in mehke kot smrt:
za nami ostane nekaj počasnega.

2
Mirna veja v pozni popoldanski svetlobi
v svojih nezrelih plodovih nosi poletje:
pogled nanjo v rahlem gibanju tja in nazaj
nosi upanje.
Gotovo je to zdaj potrebno,
da zvonjenje ne bi nenadoma padlo v travo
(mislimo, da mislimo travo,
ker se le redko zavemo ljubezni do nečesa,
kar nas postavi pred novo uganko).
Sploh ni težko: najprej mimo ušes
švigne vse, kar je bilo poplavljeno,
nato izgine vse tisto,
česar niti nismo pogrešali,
pa bi lahko, tam, kjer obstajajo besede
za tisto, na kar nismo nikoli pomislili.
In če bi, bi tudi srečo začutili kot
sigurnost koraka ob naslednji stopnici --
in je prepozno:
v spominu zmeraj nekaj cvrči,
kot z od mehurji mehurjev razjedena koža.

3
Vztrajam pri svojem, četudi vem,
da obstaja več prostorov, kot jih poznam,
kjer bi strah napolnjeval večino tistega,
kar je navadno skrito pod še tako krhko lupino.
Svetloba pada na zrelo steno
kot vonj skozi lase:
na koncu zadene ob nekaj, kar se razteza
čez tisto, česar ne moremo misliti:
tudi v vrsto nanizanih besed ne znamo prebrati.
In sploh -- če bi znal, komu bi povedal, kje sem?
Z nežnim prepričevanjem in
z zobmi se da spraskati kamne
in z ustnicami se da zapreti odprtine,
skozi katere uhaja čas:
tako si predstavljam, da sem tukaj.

4
Malo stvari ostane
kot vasi na vrhu hriba:
naveličane se predajo
božji sapi
in za sabo pustijo
svobodo norosti.

Outplayings

1
I step in my place like a famished wolf,
in order to sleep, not for the sake of wakefulness.
I will once return here,
weary of slicing waves into pieces so tiny
you could believe them all to grow their own single hair,
further deepening the difference between night and day.
That I will return does not mean
I was here before.
I have never been, where I once was:
in this room, in any room,
on the edge where the sky melts into a drop of blood,
in which the buzzing of ideas is forever stilled,
in the middle of a field where animals cross
with serene and concordant steps.
I turn the page, I turn my head,
just catching the last ideas departing,
not in nights’ litanies nor in pools of silence,
agitation kept aside for some other gemination.
No idea can be caught by bare hands,
not even the tiniest one, imprinted in a glance,
fleeting as the years and tender as death:
left behind us is something slow.

2
A peaceful branch, in the light of a late afternoon,
carries summer in its unripe fruit:
the sight of it, as it slowly rocks back and forth,
carries hope.
At present this must be necessary
in order to keep the ringing from suddenly tumbling into the grass
(we think we think grass,
being rarely conscious of loving something
that puts us before a new riddle).
No difficulty appears: everything flooded before
flashes past the ears first,
then disappears that
which was never missed,
but could have been, where words exist
for something never thought of.
And were it missed, even the feeling of luck would equal
the sureness of a step mounting a new stair --
it is too late:
memory is forever sizzling
like blisters on scorched skin.

3
I never give in, even when I know there exist
more spaces than known to me,
where fear would fill up most of what is otherwise hidden
even under the most fragile shell.
Light falls upon a ripe wall
like scent through hair:
hitting, at the end, something
expanding over the unthinkable:
words strung on a string are still unreadable.
And anyhow -- who would I reveal my location to if I could?
Rocks can be scratched out
with teeth and gentle arguing
and lips can seal the openings
through which time escapes:
and thus I deceive myself that I am here.

4
Not many things rest
like villages on mountain tops:
they give in from weariness
to divine breath,
leaving behind
the freedom of insanity.

Translated by Ana Petkovšek.