Ivan Dobnik

White stars.
White beams of moonlight,
White books, fingers, dreams,
A white caress,
White cats and white tenderness,
White squirrels in the winter woods,
White blood before my eyes,
The white pain of lakes and slaughtered birds,
White fire on the white lips of lust,
White waves surging through your body,
A white kiss, a white touch and sigh,
The white scent of the night, the cry of seas engulfed within,
White paper for blue letters lost to all paths,
White veins of crammed clouds beyond autumn skies,
White seduction, white thinking, white slumbers, white standing,
A white sigh floating in the morning of some Spanish city,
White dancing above forests, vanishing in silent weeping,
White, white cremation of time, music, lips, fingers,
White as you walk beside me, white silk, years, trains, books,
A white form of living, coming and going,
White wind in chilled beings watching mute windows,
White noise of an indelible poem, which lasts, lasts, lasts, persists,
White teeth of the sun, the celestial king, on human faces,
White silence of unearthly waterfalls, downy butterflies of dusk,
White walks of no return, no departure, no repose,
White vision, white feeling, white stroking, white whispers,
White in the white heart of whiteness's unmistakable voice,
A white voice. White dust covering us. White cycles of the returning wild.
A white night. Cruel, untameable, now. White wind and white horsemen.
A white abyss. The white silence of tempests, the white sleep of dead whales.
The white flesh of the river. In the white nutshell of memory. A white planet of exquisite
stillness.
The white bible of metaphors. A white bridge of pairs in footprints, embraces, scents.
The white moss of childhood. The smoke of white toys, white objects of Dream. When
writing in white,
The white of landscapes and the white air within, the white pulsation and
the white breath, white is the fragrance of paper in the white image of you, here, in me.
A white parade of whites. White as it Is and Will be and Was, like the unseizeable
White moss of childhood. On the white dunes of quivering words a white stone,
A white shoe, a white blind spot in my writing, the eyes, white eyes that gaze.
A white apparition. White strings of desire. A white journey. Into the white,
The white shape of the winter, the white charcoal of plants and buried rumours,
White cities lying ravaged. There I see you, white. There I feel you and think

White, white beauty, white pain, white music, white warmth.
White, you preserve me, the blood of letters. The white of summer, the white peace of
hymns.
The white, steep slopes of paradise. Everything made of the white ranges of sensitivity,
wounds,
White wounds of death. White evanescence. White emptiness. White silence.
White, white. Never asleep, a white lion of desire, a white trap in white fire, in
White screams and white sighs, nested in white, a white sea,
A white animal beneath the white surface of thought. White reveries,
White seclusion. The irrepresible white splashing of white birds,
The white queens of writing, when the white land rises, neighs, speaks in
White. The smell of the white grows stronger, the
White defiance is reborn where there is the white home, the white house,
The white garden of a different loving, on the white cloth of
White primeval forests, where white priests of whiteness dig black
Whiteness out of their mouths, white mouths of
A white spring, tonight, when we find each other white in
White, recognize a different
White, yet still white in the eyes of the blind,
White in the ashes of pine leaves.
The white abyss of the web,
A white wind, white bamboo,
A white poem, white,
White.

Someone in a distant place
is opening your body.
Someone in your place
is stripping your skin away with the eyes of the wind
and taking it onto mysterious travels.
Someone in a distant place
is opening your flowers
with a foreign tongue,
someone in your place
is seeking you in forests,
where nymphs of delight carry the peace of summers
among grasses. The gardens of cities grow dark.
Silence unfolds. When you return,
he will surely be there, the lover of trees
and your footsteps, with kisses
healing wounds and hands
caressing you so that the moon smells of
wild apple tree blossoms,
and you are not alone, you will not be alone,
here is the unsinkable shore,
here is the safe shelter of joy,
here is the dream, the blood and body of breath,
so the bird can rest and the sky cleanse.
His soul pulsates in your place.
He does not speak,
desires you, with the wind he sleeps,
water gathers in his eyes,
across the land a pair of doves flies,
wherever you are, music plays,
the silver sea whispers,
into weightless waves
the poem slips, shivers,
because you're away. Someone
in your place
is dreaming you
with your own gaze.

Give me your moss. Your teeth.
Your bones. Your breath. Your sun. Your air.
Your thoughts. Your fingers. Your shadows.
Your blood. I want you. I want your sea.
I want your trees. I want your colours. I want your words.
I want your shores. I want your ghosts. I want your light.
I want your passion. I want your silence. I want your abyss.
I want all this. And more of you. I want your fire.
The immobility of air. The scorching ice. The peach's blossom.
The stillness of earth. The shiver of horses. The scent of your woman.

Distances you never walk yet always
dream of. Coral fish caressing you.
Nocturnal waterfalls locking you into the language of solitude.
I want you shivering. I want you hot. I want you naked.
Among bamboos and poplar trees, in the land of blackbirds.

Touch my eyes. My pathways and
seconds, which represent the eternity of nature.
These are leaves. These are children. These are your submarine
worlds. This is the blood of letters, this mouth is hungering for the salt
on your back. Take it while it's burning.
Savour it slowly. For time is not important,
neither are years, places, or manners
in which you will do it. The wind is departing,
seeking and discovering in a deserted land,
like me, who am staying here and writing,
so you can visit me anytime.
It knows loneliness. Knows about colours. Feels the cold.
Listens to the waves. Tears the morning papers.
Blows into clouds and grasses. Spins the seeds
of beech trees. Lingers and leaves. Sings and waits.

Give me your tread. Give me your breath.
Give me your nights. Dark pockets of joy.
The vortex of unattainable lips. Notebooks you
never write my name in. That sigh.
That hope. That dusk you lose yourself in and nobody
ever finds you, not in books, not under covers, never.

We keep talking.
We keep touching.
Undressing. Deer jump
into shivering treetops.

The letters will remain.
The gentle look will remain.
The trees will remain,
enveloping poems.

Everything is so simple.
The silence bleeding, my breathing
in the well of your soul,
traces of an elder-scented evening.

We unfolded landscapes where birds
flying low over the surfaces of summer lakes
drank the bouncing raindrops.
All that I am consists of these drops, these lands,
these birds, these lakes.

A green sea covers me.
Fish look me in the nonexistent eyes.
Butterflies turn into grasses,
you've fallen asleep on the moss of moist scales.
What is your favourite colour?
Dancing in front of me are indigo characters you draw
in silky letters and never send,
still their scent reaches me, like the fragrance
of timeless incense.

I love you at the end of summer,
wherever you are, with the foaming sea,
which smells of salty winds, such as you are,
among hot rocks, on the sand of suns.
When will I write you the last poem?
When will you send me the last letter?
When will I enjoy your walk for the last time?
When will we sleep together for the last time?

All things come one after another like a peaceful
herd back from grazing, birds fall asleep underneath their wings,
my fingers on your skin turn into thirsty horses,
the whistling wind outside has brought a summer storm.