Brane Mozetič

whiteness which I love, my death and passion

whiteness stretching like long foam wreaths in a river

flowing from the discharge to the parched, thin

crust, scaling, chalky whiteness, fiery

whiteness burning ever downward, deeper

to the tautness of a body that keeps growing, slender

to the rhythm of old galley slaves

in sweat that flowes profusely, whiteness like horror

stories, traps at the end, like the velvet of gray

ashes, a gentle wind at night, whiteness in the utmost raising

of the membrane, when the hand is barely lifted, the eye

registers the shadows, when the body holds no more

only shudders, all its limbs, white blood, white moon,

springtime, prolonged sobbing, where are you whiteness, let me

catch you in my handy, no more slipping through my fingers,

pores, the earth, the wind, where is your whiteness

where that solitude as you evaporate, from here, from now

come on whiteness, let loose, drench me in yourself

deluging me like water, white and dry.

nameless breathing in the phone, impassioned shouts

and you remain the same as ever, even

when blinded in your haste -

calmly ordering your thoughts, you plant

a tree, or train a pet, and hold

no hope for anything but the end,

the tree looms up, collapses on your shoulders

the animal rebels and bites your hand

don't ask for more - the creature will embrace you

just know you're not its rarget

it merely hates its fear, a boot

will have its goal fulfilled, a gut its dream

death throes in the telephone, hands hold

knotted ropes, the throat its empty phrase

you're calme, in sun, in showers, you see

that constellations recede without us toward the distance

that the magic formulas themselves confuse our brains.

what good are the bonds that you invent, what good

the roots, they're nothing, all things pass

and your language has no purpose, your smile no joy

in despair, in horror at the endless seeking, being

now you finally see the real picture

as you peel back layers of aeons and beneath them

only endless wandering through forests, over fields

the search for food and human warmth

and loneliness, when a bolf of lightning send you fleeing

alien tribes with spears pursue you 

you're pinned down in a hail of sontes

covered with scars, wanting still to live

to watch the marvelous birds that soar above the swamp

to wonder at the slender deer, to hunt them

to feel the mud's softness with your feet and love

women, men, to lift up children

not forget all this just yet

not quit sliding from one country

from one body to the next, somehwere else

alone forever, with a landscape you don't know

seeing faces for the first time - alone, authentic, without lies.