Eveything, you see everything: the dimness of the concert hall, dusty
violins hurriedly placed on the parquet, the breathing of flies,
a whistling teapot, a cartridge discharget into the dim down,
a carpet's hunting movie, an inscription in the tongue of two prophets, things
that drown in endless light, cries which rise up to the sky,
the shine of metals, a basilica, the smell of a garden, the dark verse
of a sonnet, a column of children and weeping women, who
carry newborns in their wide skirts, a thin stream of plum juice
which soaks into the turned earth, trodden by retreating battalions.
Everything. The fresh tranquillity of cementeries, the painful meastases
of forests in which the known world will rattle to an end. Ancient order
of violence which returns to the hearth. How quiet the house is now.
The girls's choir has fallen silent. But the track to the East will certainly remain.
No one can erase it. And you know that the steeple clock tolls for you and us.
Translation: Andrew Wachtel
Vse vidiš, vse: polmrak koncertne dvorane, prašne
violine, v naglici pščene na parketu, dihanje muh,
piskajoči čajnik, naboj, izstreljen v medli svit,
lovski motiv tapete, napis v jeziku dveh prerokov, stvari,
ki se utapljajo v neizmerni luči, krik, ki šine do neba,
blesk kovine, baziliko, kako diši v gredici, mračen verz
soneta, kolono mladoletnikov in hlipajočih žensk, ki v
širokih krilih nosijo novorojenčke, tanke curke slivovega
soka, ki pronica v razpokano zemljo, zgaženo od umikajočih
se enot. Vse. Vidiš sveži mir pokopališča, bolne metastaze
gozda, v katerih dokončno bo izhropel znani svet. Davni red
nasilja, ki se vrača na ognjišča. Kako tiha je zdaj hiša.
Umolknil je dekliški zbor. A sled na vzhod gotovo bo ostala.
Nihče je ne izbriše. In veš, da stolpna ura bije vam in nam.
