Birds have become frequent visitors since
I started feeding them. I've become used to
looking out in the morning. Sometimes
they come to dig into the ground, into the warmth,
they nestle down there, swagger a bit,
sometimes they walk along the fence;
in winter time they replace young men
showing off before the girls,
and even in the winter mornings
girls take a walk, only for the birds.
One of them landed on a rose today. If there
hadn't been a screen I could have bumped into it
instead of just smiling. At the sparrow
under the sun who stared at me for a long time
instead of staring at the girls. Early
in the morning I was walking with a girl who
came from the psychiatric ward, with her and
with the vapid question, much more unusual than a poem
(how should I watch her?). She stopped
and said: "Do you think they
talk, too?" The sparrow talks more than she does
while I just keep smiling. I'm even
writing down on a piece of paper that the bird
was laughing at me through the window. If the sparrow
on the rose didn't go off to tell others how fervently
I chirped in the room, then we understood each other
well. And if the girl from the psychiatric ward
hadn't started telling that she almost
forgot about the pain, I would have written
that I'm smirking at her emaciated face.
Which we formed overnight, together
behind the windows of her temporary home. When she
suddenly became a timid migratory bird.
Translated by Teja Pribac and David Brooks.
Ptiči so pogosti gosti tukaj, odkar
jim dajem hrano. Navadil sem se,
da zjutraj pogledam ven. Včasih
se pridejo zarit v zemljo, v toploto,
tam se ugnezdijo, malo se šopirijo,
včasih postopajo po ograji;
pozimi nadomeščajo mladeniče,
ki se nastavljajo pred puncami,
in punce se celo v zimskih
jutrih sprehajajo, samo za ptiče.
Eden je danes prišel na vrtnico. Če ne
bi bilo šipe, bi mogoče trčil vanj,
namesto da sem se nasmehnil. Vrabcu
na soncu, ki me je dolgo opazoval,
namesto da bi gledal punce. Zgodaj
zjutraj sem se sprehajal s punco, ki je
prišla s psihiatrije, z njo in s trhlim
vprašanjem, nenavadnejšim od pesmi
(kako naj jo opazujem?). Ustavila
se je, rekoč: »Misliš da se oni tudi
pogovarjajo?« Vrabec govori več od nje,
ko se jaz samo še nasmiham. Celo
zapisujem na papir, da se mi je ptič
smejal čez okno. Če vrabec na vrtnici
ni šel drugim pripovedovat, kako vneto
sem čivkal v sobi, potem sva se dobro
razumela. In če mi punca s psihiatrije
ne bi šla pripovedovat, da je skoraj
pozabila na bolečino, bi napisal, da
se smejim čez njen shujšani obraz.
Ki smo ga oblikovali prek noči, skupaj
za okni njenega začasnega doma. Ko je
nenadoma postala boječa ptica selivka.
