What was my life before I was awoken by the
swishing of wings, when, suddenly, on the horizon,
a bird materialised?
How much of my body had I previously inhabited?
That young boy’s body, grown in drought, moving
around tha Carse, bitter and solitary, climbing
ridges, steep and luxurious with vines and
paradisical fruits, and which suddenly opened onto
the immensity of blue.
And then, suddenly, the bird.
First of all this was perhaps a seagull, a white
fluttering flower, edges blurred by distance, or the
bird of my mother’s fables, the bird which I took
with me to my nest of sleep towards evening, so
that it might open itself up in its beauty, its most
splendid, multicoloured, exquisite formed feathers
spread.
Yet it wasn’t a bird of this land, the sparrow of the
eaves, the titmouse of the pergola, the blackbird
of the bushes in the orchard or one of the long
lines of starlings gathering on the highest point of
the neighbour’s roof in autumn, or, for all I know,
in winter, when the cold wind blew across the
courtyard and their discordant chirping mellowed
the soul.
Yet this was not enough for one of these to be
transformed into that bird on the horizon, at fist
preceived with senses other than sight, but which
became clearer from day to day, changed from day
to day, mythical at times, of monstrous form others:
like the appeal to life, the fear of the first step, the
desire to pronounce a word that people would hear
and understand. A word of bread, a word of earth,
a word from depths of the blue precipice with the
reflections of the sky.
I lived that young boy’s body up to its final fibre.
From then I felt I must fly.
Translation: Diana Crampton
kaj je bilo moje življenje, dokler ga ni nekega dne
zburilo prhutanje kril, ko se je znenada na obzorju
spenila ptica?
Koliko svojega telesa sem poselil dotlej? Telo
mladega fanta, sušično raščeno, ki je hodilo v
gmajno, samotno in trpko od brinja, ki je hodilo
v breg, strm in bohoten od trt in rajskih sadežev,
prepadno zevajoč nad veliko sinjino.
Potem znenada ptica.
Morda je bil to najprej galeb, leteč bel cvet nejasnih
obrisov v daljavi, ali ptič iz pravljičnih maminih
pripovedi, ptič, ki sem ga nosil v gnezdo spanja
pod noč, da se je v sanjah razbohotil in obdal z
najčudovitejšim perjem, neslutenih oblik in barv.
Vsekakor ni bil ptič domačin, vrabec z domačega
napušča, sinica v brajdi, kos iz grmičja v vrtu ali
kateri izmed dolge vrste škorcev, ki so se zbirali na
slemenu sosedove strehe na jesen ali na pomlad,
kaj vem, morda celo pozimi, ko je velo hladno čez
borjač in je njihovo prepirljivo ščebetanje grelo
dušo.
Toliko pa ga le ni bilo, da bi se lahko kateri od
njih prelevil v tisto ptico na obzorju, ki sem jo
sprva bolj občutil, kot videl, a je postajala iz dneva
v dan jasnejša, iz dneva v dan drugačna, včasih
milejša, včasih strašljivih oblik. Kakor klic v
življenje, kakor strah pred prvim korakom, kakor
želja, da bi izrekel besedo, ki bi jo ljudje slišali in
razumeli. Besedo iz kruha, besedo iz prsti, besedo iz
globočine sinjega prepada z odsevom neba.
Poselil sem telo mladega fanta do zadnjega vlakna.
Od takrat mi je, da bi moral leteti.
