Taja Kramberger

How thin is the papers's profile

on the next desk.

                          Invisible crust of time.

The twitching of colors in a sketchpad

           like porhyry that sinks into the singing of sirens

and lanterns. An unknown fleet rows to the rapids, for

                          this marzipan,

a renewal of thought following the echo of a coin that made

a pirouette. Champagne runs in the stream of the Ljubljanica - 

and listen,

         how it sends drops into the world this rain of ours that

keeps falling into foreign furrows. How a snowflake tilts its chin,

making the dimples in her cheeks shimmer before falling on a windowpane,

for

                         this is marzipan,

the sun's awakening from beneath the cover of a porcelain helm,

into litography of verse. Gentle vaults. The foliage of a dream.

     I take a dusty book off the shelf and unfold its

wings into a spinning yarn. Infinite threads weave thoughts

until it hurts,

            all the way to mirrors' watersprings that bathe in looks

and cast images on the black eyes of obsidian.

A rotor which ceaselessly whirls the dynamics of stillness

    is invincible in its eagerness. A feathered snake.

there are metamorphoses that shred tracks into atomic dottiness of snow,

there is the irrevocable passing of a moment when the young moon

            shakes off the sundust and the crater deepens,

                 making the landing safe for butterflies.

How new poets awake into the fresh fragrance of morning, those who

have been cradled all night in the canopies of willow trees. They cross the

water stream of dreams and

from below

           old buoys, with fishooks made of silken irises

fish up words from the bottom into the light of day.

How the eye in December caresses the river's surface, and the water is in

another, new state, thrown into the arms of the riverbed.

I think to myself:

Lions are born thus.                                Precisely.

How I melt away at each good poem that flows through me

           as if running through a familiar stream,

    how fire is bound to fire again by water, a satori in malachite,

how high magnetism carries me, an immeasurable delight in its own

saddle, as I hold on to the mane of words and suddenly feel such vertigo

as if the universe had made a lion-like leap,

how I am burnt up through the fireplace, I expand warmth around me into

smoke and

light gleams through the delta of words,

how I descend again like pollen

      in the river, the waterfall, the glacial tongue,

              in the crystal building blocks and I am not the same, for

                        this is marzipan,

              the evergreen snow of coconut palms

            being sprayed through me onto a page. 

Translation: Mia Dintinjana