Zemljekrog - Sonja Koranter

7/27/2019 Zemljekrog - Sonja Koranter

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BESeDAE L E K T R O N S K A K N J I G A

O M N I B U S

Sonja Koranter

Zemljekrog



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BESeDA

Sonja Koranter ZEMLJEKROG

Prevajalci: angle‰ãina: Simon Koranteritalijan‰ãina: Majda Rasingernem‰ãina: Magdalena Cundriã

‰pan‰ãina: Sa‰a Hiti farsi: Manzar in Ali Milosavljeviã

Lektor: Andrijan LahIlustracije: Lea DeÏmanFotografija naslovnice: Igor Pustovrh

Tiskana izdaja je iz‰la v samozaloÏbi,Hru‰ica 2002, s pomoãjo Ministrstvaza kulturo (ISBN 961-6370-03-0)

To izdajo pripravil

Franko Luin [email protected]

ISBN 91-7301-194-0

[email protected]

www.omnibus.se/beseda



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Vsebina

Moj ded 6Mio nonno 8

Moja babica 10Mia nonna 12Minljivost 14

La transitorietà 16Moj svet 18My world 20Meine Welt 22Orbis terrarum 24Orbis terrarum 29

MALTE·KA SVETLOBA 35Privezana skala 36The chained rock 38Mdinski oboki 40

The arches of Mdin 42Kalipsina tanãica 44

The Calipso’s vail 45 Megalitski tempelj 46The temple of Megalit 48



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Malte‰ka Venera 50The Maltese Venus 51

Memnona oãi 52The eyes of Memnon 54Pu‰ãavski per 57The desert dog 60Pravljica v pesku 63

A fairy tale in the sand 65 Katalonska serenada 67The Catalan serenade 70 Serenata de Cataluña 72Barcelonska slika 74The painting of Barcelona 76Cuadro de Barcelona 78Veter sedmih griãev 81The wind of seven knolls 83

Dvanajsti krog 85The twelfth circle 87 Prasketanje 89The cracling 91Refleksija 93

The reflexion 95 Di‰ave jutra 97

The morning fragrances 98Nasmehni se 99 Smile 100



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Obraz ob zidu 102The face by the wall 104

Jeruzalem, Jeruzalem 106 Jerusalem, Jerusalem 108Kretske slike 109The Cretean images 111Noã v Knososu 112

A night in Knosos 114Bizantinski mozaik 116Byzantian mosaic 118

CIMBALE IN SVILA 120Nadir 121Dopoldan 121BliÏajoãi opoldan 122Medium coeli 122

Varljivo opoldne 123Zenit 123

CYMBALS AND SILK 124

Nadir 125

Morning 125The approaching noon 126Medium coeli 126The delusive afternoon 127 Zenith 127



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Moj ded

Najprej sem zagledala klobuk,nato dolgo, rahlo upognjeno postavo.

Moj ded se je pribliÏevalmed nevihtnimi oblaki,med pra‰natimi delci ceste,ki se je pred menoj lomilav spomin.Njegova hi‰a je imela prag,zlizan in star,od starosti zelen,vendar to je bil prag,

kjer me je ponavadi ãakal,in ob tak‰nem trenutkusem bila samo del njegove celice,samo del zelenega volkas praga Ïe zdavnaj zamolãane domaãije.

Deda spoznam samo po klobuku,njegova barva glasu mi je tuja,tuji sta mi njegova dlan in ‰e boljzelena go‰ãava okrog njegovegalonãenega kolovrata.



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Rada bi mu sedela v naroãju,‰e raje bi poslu‰ala Ïvenket lonãene posode,

ko bom med maliki in svetniki,v ograji neskonãne meglice dobila svoj sedeÏ.Ta dan, ko bo moãvirnato zeleni petelinstare posode zakikirikal v dan,bom sprejela klobuk iz rok mojega deda,

iz neder zemlje, ilovnato rumene.Samo na lonec poãakam,na travo, ki je prerasla robidovje,in na rdeãe ãe‰nje sadovnjaka,kjer sta objeti jablana in Ïitni klas.Z Ïitnicami bom spletla vrv,stol za mojega deda in pravljicoza moje otroke.Ko bi le ne pozabila topline lonãarjevine,

mleãnosti mladega Ïitnega klasain soãnosti prve temno modre slivez mojega dvori‰ãa, polja insenãnatega privida mojega deda.



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Mio nonno

Dapprima vidi il cappello,poi la lunga, leggermente curva statura.

Mio nonno si stava avvicinandotra le nuvole burrascose,tra le molecole polverose della strada,che davvanti a me si spezzavanel ricordo.La sua casa aveva la soglialogora e vecchia,verde dalla vecchiaia,ma questa era la soglia

dove di solito mi aspettavae in tale momentoero solo parte della sua cellula,solo parte del verderamedalla soglia della casa da lungo taciuta.

Riconosco il nonno solo dal cappello,il suo timbro della voce mi è estraneo,estraneo è il palmo della sua mano e ancor di piúil verde folto attorno al suofilarello di terracotta.



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Vorrei stargli seduta in braccio,mi piacerebbe ancor meglio ascoltare l’acciottolio della

terraglia,quando tra idoli e santinel recinto della nebbiolina eterna traverò il mio sedile.Il giorno quando il gallo verde paludedelle vecchie stoviglie chicchirerà nel dì,

riceverò il cappello dalle mani di mio nonno,dal seno della terra, gialla argilla.Aspetterò solo la pentola,l’erba che ha coperto il rovetoe le ciliegie rosse dal frutteto,dove stanno abbracciati il melo e la spiga del grano.Dai cereali intreccerò una corda,una sedia per mio nonno e una fiabaper i miei bambini.

Se solo non dimenticassi il calore della bottega diterraglie,la lattiginosità della giovane spiga del granoe la succosità della prima prugna bludal mio cortile, il campo e

l’ombrosa apparizione di mio nonno.



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Moja babica

Temno moder predpasnikmoje babice

je imel sedem Ïepov.V njih ni bilo sladkorja,ne kruha,v njih je ãepelo stoletjeljudi,ki so prihajali, obleãeniv temno modre predpasnikena dvor mojega deda.Za ograjo so se bohotile robide,

v senci pod vinsko trtose je ‰ibila pogaãa in v vrãu,zlatorumenem z roÏami,se je penilo domaãe vino.Z oãmi, polnimi sonca in veselja,

je babica govorila —brez besed.Njen obraz, zagorel od soncain odet v platneno ruto,mi je ponujal zavetje,



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ãas brez zidov ‰olskega poslopjain sonce na obroke.

Od jutra do veãera,pod temno modro slivo,v Ïitnem polju in v senci grozdnega drevesa.Robide niso ãakale,‰e manj kopica otrok.

Vse je izginilo tisti dan,ko sem poslednjiã ugriznilav grenko-sladko jabolkoÏivljenjskih zablod.



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Mia nonna

Il grembiule bludi mia nonna

aveva sette tasche.In esse non c’era ne zuccherone pane,in esse se ne stava accoccolato un secolodi genteche veniva, vestitain grembiuli blunel cortile di mio nonno.Dietro il recinto esuberavano le more,

nell’ombra sotto la vignasi piegava la focaccia e nella brocca,gialla oro con i fiorispumeggiava il vino di casa.Con gli occhi pieni di sole e gioia

parlava la nonna —senza parole.Il suo viso, abbronzato dal solee avvolto nel fazzoletto di telami offriva il ricetto,



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il tempo senza la mura dell’edificio scolasticoe il sole a rate.

Dalla mattina alla sera,sotto il prugno blu,nel campo di cereali e nell’ombra dell’albero d’uva.Le more non aspetarono,ancor meno la folla dei bambini.

Tutto sparì il giornoquando per l’ultima volta morsil’amara-dolce meladegli inganni della vita.



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Minljivost

Grele so me tople, raskave roke,ko sem dedu govorila o soncu,

o krajih, ki jih ne poznam,o svetlobi, ki jo vidim dan na dan.Ni poslu‰al z u‰esi,z oãmi je v moji du‰i gradil mestoza jutri,za ãase, ko ne bo mogel sesti na voz,ko bo njegov lonãeni kolovratraztrgal nit posode in bo Ïgalna daritevv veliki peãi popokala,

se spremenila v ãrepinje.Poslu‰al me je s srcem,mi odgrnil zaveso v topli kotanji srca,ko je s koraki teÏkimi od‰elv sadovnjak.

Tam so njegova drevesa prezgodajizgubila listein mlaka, ki je kovinsko modro sevalasvoj Ïabji zarod,je kar ãez noã potemnela.



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V hi‰i moje mladosti ne gori veã luã,v njej sameva kolovrat,

pokrit s slamo —spomin na zibko in ladjo sanjskov vsakdan pregnano.



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La transitorietà

Le calde, ruvide mani mi scaldavanoquando a mio nonno parlavo del sole,

dei posti che non conosco,della luce che vedo giorno dopo giorno.non ascoltava con le orecchie,con gli occhi nella mia anima costruiva una città,per domani,per i tempi quando non potrà sedersi sul carro,quando il suo filarello di terracottastraperà il filo del vasellame e l’olocaustonel grande forno si screpolerà ,

si trasformerà in cocci.Mi ascolto con il cuore,mi svelo la tenda nella calda fossa del cuore,quando con i passi pesanti se ne andònel frutteto.

Li i suoi alberi troppo prestopersero le fogliee il pantano che in blu metallo splendevala sua covata di rane,durante la notte si oscurò.



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Nella casa della mia giovinezza non arde piu il lume,in essa sta solitario il filarello,

coperto di paglia —il ricordo della culla e della nave dei sogniin trivialità espulso.



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Moj svet

Ta svet, ki mi jemlje sapo,je kakor posu‰eno drevo

brez listov in vej.V njem prezimimin na pomlad se grem sonce.Okrog prsi imam posu‰ene roÏein na obzorju je Ïe vzhod.Med prsti ãutim hlad zime.Pred vrati trka starec brezzobi,piska na pi‰ãal in se gre preroka.

Ta svet, ki mi jemlje kri in svobodo,je samo podalj‰ek vãeraj‰njega dne.Med cestami so nasajena drevesa,v prahu so odtisi stopalkakor prero‰ka dlan,

ki ima vdelane oãi v nebo.Za jutra, ki jih ni in jih ne bo.



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Starec brezzobi dvigne roko,si premisli,

niã veã ne trka na vrata zemlje.Odhaja med mrtve,saj ve — daleã je ‰e do veãnosti.



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My world

This world, so breathtaking,is like a sapless tree,

with no leaves, no twigs.In it I winterand in spring I am the sun.Sapless blossoms around my chestand sunrise appearing on the horizon.I feel the winter’s cold between my fingers.A toothless old man’s knocking at the door,blowing his flute, pretending to be a prophet.

This world, taking my blood and freedomis just an addition to the days gone by.Trees are planted among the roads,footprints in dust,like a prophet’s palm,

with eyes infixed to the sky.For all the mornings,never having a chance to exist.



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The toothless old man raises his hand,changing his mind,

no longer knocking at the earth’s door.Joining the dead,for he knows — a long way to get eternity.



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Meine Welt

Diese Welt, die mir den Atem nimmt,ist wie ein Baum verwelkter

ohne Zweige und BlätterIch überwintere darinund im Frühling bin ich wieder Sonne.Dürre Blumen schlingen sich um meine Brustund auf dem Horizon beginnt der Aufgang.Zwischen den Fingern fühle ich die Winterkälte.Ein Mummelgreis klopft an die Tür,auf eine Pfeife pfeifend verstellt er sicher sei Prophet.

Diese Welt, die mir das Blut und Freiheit nimmt,ist nichts als Tagsverlängerung von gestern.Zwischen Strassen gibt es neugepflanzte Bäume,im Staub sind Fussabdrücke

wie eine Sehershand,mit Augen in den Himmel eingebaut.Für die Morgen die nie gibt und nie je geben wird.



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Der Mummelgreis erhebt seine Hand.bedenkt sich aber,

klopft an die Erdetür nicht mehr.Er zieht zu den Toten fort,wissend — weit ist es bis zur Ewigkeit noch.



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Orbis terrarum

Je v besediãar srca,

dogovorjeni izrekiprepleteni v skledigorja?

ârta, ki delinebo in zemljo,se razteza v ljudeh,polnih bremen.

Med soncem in lunoje le korak,razstavljen na obdobjaãarobni oblak.

Po stezi jezeranevidni ‰krat brzi,na obzorju orel belproti zemlji hiti.



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Med ljubeznijo in strahomje le nitka tanka.

Z njo si spletem ‰otor,se obleãem vanjo.

Blisk ima korenino v oblaku,ãrno jezero je spet brez dna.

Jeleni severa so sami,ãlove‰ki rod je skupaj, v blatu.

Ptice so razdrle gnezdo,odletele so v ãas.S tal pobiram tanke liste,z njimi si zakrijem obraz.

Ribiã na obali reke

sam, brez mreÏe spet lovi.Mag, osupel in neviden,pre‰teva njegove kosti.

Sredi pustinje je grad,

pesek se nabira na okopih.Sli‰im, pravi ‰krlatni voj‰ãak,v telesu mojem spi gad.



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Z iglami so mi prebodli telo,v srce travo posejali,

me izgnali daleã stran,zajokalo ni niti nebo.

Na medeni skali sesrebrna igla sveti.

âarobnjak pobira kamenob obali, moji so obeti.

Videla sem prvo brv.Po njej so hodili,obleãeni v ‰krlat.Vodili konje za vrv.

Iz medu in iz smole

je cesta vesoljna.Lepi se na podplate,v oãeh veãer medi.

Kdor prvi vrÏe kopje,

junak je pod ‰otorom.Kdor prvi vidi sonce,poslednji je na zemlji.



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Med mavrico in hribomje blazina veãera.

Med teboj in menojje meglena odeja dneva.

Z napetim lokom stojivladar neba pred nebe‰ãani.

Njegov pogled sonce usmrti,gozd na zemlji zapira poti.

ârni kolobarji nebaso prelestne ptice spomina.Nanje naslonim telo,raztrgano lice.

Vpra‰ala sem orakelj,

naj zidam zid?V svitek zvita kaãana trinoÏniku oãi obraãa.

Prvi list, ki pade z drevesa,

je boleãina ljudi,naslednji, ki so na vrsti,so grob poletnih noãi.



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V prahu so leÏalikakor mrtve roÏe.

Samo kaplja deÏja jedvignila obzorja do neba.

Pu‰ãavnik v rosi joãe.Za mislijo,

ki neizgovorjeno mu nebozaklepa v tuje telo.

Pod brestom ni veã prsti.Znosili so jo velikani.V kotanje, kjer voda buãi,tam prebivajo izbrani.

V zemlji so zakopani

jutranji oblaki.Iz njih se jutri rodi,prvi iz boÏanske prsti.



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Orbis terrarum

Is in a worda heart’s grace,

agreed proverbsintertwined in a bowlof sorrow?

The line that dividesthe sky from the landis stretching inside the peoplethat are full of burdens.

Between the sun and the moonis only a step,dismantled into erasis the magic cloud.

On the lake’s pathhurries the invisible dwarf,the white eagle on the horizonhastens towards the earth.



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Between love and fearis only a slender thread.

With it I knit a tent,I dress in it.

Lightning has its root in a cloud,the black lake is without its bottom again.

The northern deer are alone,the human race together, in mud.

The birds have destroyed their nest,flown into time.Form the ground I gather thin leaves,cover my face with them.

The fisherman on the shore is alone,

he’s fishing without the net again.The magus, perplexed and invisible,is counting his bones.

Amidst the desert lies a castle,

sand is accumulating on the trenches.I hear, says the purple warrior,inside my body sleeps a castle.



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They’ve pierced my body with needles,planted grass inside my heart,

banished my far away,not even the sky had cried.

On the honeyed rocka silver needle is shining.

The wizard is picking up the stoneon the shore, promises are mine.

I’ve seen the first footbridge.They’ve been crossing itdressed into purple cloth.Leading horses with a rope.

Out of honey and wax

is the universal road.It sticks on soles,in eyes the evening ripens.

Whoever casts his spear the first

is the hero under the tent. Whoever sees the sun the firstwill be the last on Earth.



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Between the rainbow and the hillockthere’s an evening pillow.

Between you and methere’s the day’s misty cover.

The regent of the sky stands beforethe immortals with the strained bow.

His gaze kills the sun,the earthly forest closes the paths.

The sky’s black circlesare the charming birds of memory.Against them I lean my body,the tattered cheek.

I’ve asked the oracle:

Should I build a wall?The snake rolled up in a scrollis turning its eyes on the tripod.

The first leaf that falls from the tree

is the pain of all people,the next ones in lineare the summer nights’ grave.



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They’ve lain in dustlike dead flowers.

Only a drop of rainrose horizons to the sky.

The hermit in the dew is crying.For the thought

that locks the untold skyinto an unknown body.

Under the elm there’s no more mould.Giants have spread it around.In the hollows where water roars,there dwell the chosen ones.

In the ground the morning clouds

are burried.From them tomorrow is born,the first from the divine mould.



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Starodavni jezik Perzije — farsi — se ‰e danes uporablja

v Iranu in Afganistanu, kjer je tudi uradni jezik. Govorijo ga v zahodnem deluPakistana, kjer je v osnovni‰oli drugi izbirni jezik poleg

angle‰ãine, ter na meji med Iranom in Irakom.

Jezik farsi je izredno pojoã in kot nala‰ã prirejen zaizraÏanje globokih ãustev,predvsem ljubezni, lepot narave, ljudi in svobode.

Zapisan je v ãudoviti,skrivnostni, na videz

zapleteni obliki, katero Ïal razumejo samo doloãeni,predvsem pa tisti ljudje, kividijo s srcem.

V farsi je prevedeno prvih

pet kitic pesmi z naslovomOrbis Terrarum.



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MALTE·KA SVETLOBA



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Privezana skala

Drobna pika na zemljevidu,obdana z medenim obzidjem

in kriÏem ki utaplja ãasv morju sinjem,je moj kaÏipot, ko se grem romarko,da bi tam v ‰irnem prostranstvu vodena‰la zrno moãi in si zgradila nov svet —Ïivela Ïivljenje.V tem kamnitem skrivali‰ãusredi sveta, kjer skale privezane vidijoz oãmi Ozirisa,

me greje sonce in luna hladi.Odpiram vrata v hi‰ov barvi medu,sem kot vino bordojsko,omamna in topla

od malte‰ke svetlobe in miru.Ta kamniti svet, brez roÏ,brez dreves, brez potokov in brez rek,a poln svetleãih zvezd,z molitvijo meni neznano,



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me kljub nemoãi vklene v temoin pogoltne z jezikom nerazumljivih besed.

Za obzidjem posedim, poslu‰am topove,sreãne obraze preletim —‰otorsko ‰iroko je sinje neboin vabljivo globoko malte‰ko oko.



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The chained rock

A tiny spot on the map,surrounded by a honeyed wall

and a cross, which drowns the timein the azure sea,is my waymark when I play a pilgrim,to find a grain of strength and build me a new worldin the vast spaciousness of water —live my life.Inside this rocky hideawayIn the middle of the world, where the chained rockslook through the Osiris’ eyes,

I’m warmed by the sun, cooled by the moon.I’m opening a doorof the honey-coloured house,being like a bordeaux wine,stupefying and warm

from the Maltese freedom and calmness.Despite all my faintnessthis rocky world without flowersand trees, streams and rivers,yet full of shining stars,



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chains me into the darknessand swallows me with a language

of abstruse wordswith an unknown prayer.

I sit behind the wall, listen to the cannonsand glance the happy faces —

wide is the azure skyand alluring is the deep Maltese eye.



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Mdinski oboki

Potujem v stekleni reki, v reki romarjevin ptic prezimovalk

med obzidje mesta in med spomine ljudi —i‰ãemo zaklad preteklosti.Mdinsko mesto jekakor ptica sanjalka, moje srce ga ne obudi,preveã je topel med in preveã zaãudeneso ãrne oãi.Ko se zlijeta obzidje in neboz glasovi neba in s ãasom mestapozabljenega,

se mi zazdi, hipoma in brez sramu,da je tu moj dom, in prav takokot voj‰ãaki in vitezi zrem v ãas,ki se kot med na soncu raztopi.·e ãakam, se veselim,

pod izrezljanim balkonom si du‰o ohladim,med prepotenimi telesi iz zlata,z govorico kakor zamolkel plazme zajame val vetra vzhodnega.Tu, kjer ni sladke vode iz studenca



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in steklena reka jedka roke in srce,me pogoltne neka tuja, ãrna streha —

ãas kot zver vklenjenami v uho spet ‰epeta.

Voj‰ãak na skali pa Ïivi,v obleki medeni in s steklenimi oãmi!



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The arches of Mdin

I travel in the river of glass, the river of pilgrimsand hibernating birds

to the walls of the city and memories of the people —we search the treasures of the past.The city of Mdin is like a dreaming bird,my heart awakens it,the honey being too warm,the black eyes too amazed,.As the the walls and the sky alloywith the voices of the skyand the time of the forgotten city,

it seems to me,instantly and without any shame,that my home is hereand as the warriors and knightsI look at the time,

melting like honey on the sun. Yet I wait and rejoice,cool my soul under the scalloped balcony,among the sweaty golden bodies,talking like a dull avalanche,



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I’m captured by the eastern wind. Where there’s no spring-water

and the glassy hand etches the hands and heart,I’m swallowed by a strange black roof —time is whispering in my earlike a chained beast.

The warrior lives on the rockin the honey dress and glassy eyes.



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Kalipsina tanãica

Ko bom od‰la po poteh Odisejain bom oljãno vejico nosila kot pozdrav,

me zagotovo objame Kalipsina temaizruvala bo tesnobo in strah tega sveta.Ko bom poiskala zavetje v temnem zalivu,v dolini iz vode in iz skal, kjer si ptice prezimovalkenadevajo zimski ‰al,me zagotovo poljubi Odisej noãi,zavije v med in v brezãasnost poti.

V kaplji morja sredi sveta

i‰ãem odgovor,poslu‰am molitev iz vseh ‰tirih strani neba.Nisem usli‰ana in zato grem dalje,skrita v oblak deÏja!



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The Calipso’s vail

As I take the Odysseus’ journey,greeting people with an olive branch,

the Calipso’s darkness captures me,rooting out the world’s anguish and fear.As I find shelter in the dark bay,in the valley of water and rocks,where the hibernating birdswear the winter scarf,the Odysseus of the night kisses me,turning towards honey in and the trail’s timelessness.In the drop of the sea in the middle of the world

I look for an answer,listening to the prayer from all four sides of the sky.My prayer is not heard, so I go forth,hidden in a rainy cloud.



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Megalitski tempelj

Ko hodim ob obzidju,me spremlja ãlovek temnih barv,

in se predaja soncu.S ‰iroko razprtimi oãmise gre napovedovalca prihodnosti.Obleãenemu v ãrnino in sonãno avro nad glavo,zlate polti je in laÏnivih oãi,ne verjamem mu —ne znam grlenih znakov njegove abecede,‰e veã,gibi telesa izdajajo davno preteklost.

Muãno, trudno in krvavo.Grobo obzidje, prepleteno s tisoãerimi spomini,je samo kamen,bel in zlizan;hrapav in kot nedokonãano delo mojstra —

grobo zaobljen.Ne znam mu povedati,da so moje sanje ãipkasta mreÏa ribiãev,tam daleã za obzorjem —ne vem, sem grleni znak, zataknjen v pesti,



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s katero grozi romarjem neznane deÏele.Mhaba, sem si zapomnila,

beseda je ostala v grlu,tako kot ljubezen ostane v grlu,ãisto blizu glavne Ïile,in se pretaka naprej v srce.âokoladno rjavo telo vpije medena slika

mesta,ki tone v pozabo in se kru‰i skupaj s ãipkastimi balkoni.Ne bom pozabila —pa ãetudi mi je bila obljubljena drugaãna modrina!



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The temple of Megalit

Walking by the wallsI’m accompanied by a dark man,

who’s surrendering to the sun. With his eyes wide openhe pretends to be clairvoyant.Dressed in black and with a sunny aura above his head,golden tan and deceiving eyes,I do not believe him —not recognizing his guttural alphabet,even more,the body’s movement indicates the ancient past.

Painful, tired and bloody.The rough walls, interwined with thousands of memories,is just a rock,white and frayed;rugged and roughly edged

as a master’s unfinished work.Not knowing how to tell him,that my dreams are fishermen’s lace-like nets,far beyond the horizon —not knowing, I’m the guttering sign, stuck inside a fist



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that threatens the pilgirms from an unknown land.Mhaba I remembered,

this word remained in my throat,like does the love,near the main artery,flowing into the heart.The honey picture of the city

absorbs the chocolade brown body,falling into oblivion, crumbling with the lace-like

balconies.I shall not forget — thoughI was promised a different kind of azure.



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Malte‰ka VeneraS kralji in z beraãi,s postopaãi in z romarji iz daljnih deÏelsem pila vino,

praskala steklovino,ko je stopljeno bruhal novodobni Hefajst.Z rokami sem ãutila utrip srca inpreveã se je v medu lesketalamalte‰ka igra ãasov in Ïelja.Krog, ki ni krog,je le peãat in zelenje,ki vene sredi gomile,to je ãas, ki ne premine.

Svet, ki daje le, ko vse vzamein ‰e bogovi odidejo spat.Edino drevo, ki je ‰e ostalo,pa nudi korenine in senco menitakrat,

ko otipam lesketajoãe boginje telo,njen sad.A glava, je ni?

Zaprem oãi in sanjam sanje davnih ljudi!Vseh ljudi.



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The Maltese Venus With kings and beggars,loafers and pilgrims from distant landsI drank the wine,

scratched the glass,disgorged by the new-aged Hefaist.

With my hands I felt the heart-beat,the Maltese game of times and wishestoo strongly glimmering in the honey.The circle, not being a circle,is just a seal and greenery,withering amidst of the heap,this is time, never expiring.

The world that gives after it takes alland even the gods fall asleep.The only remaining treeoffering its roots and shadows,as I feel the goddess’ glittering body,

her fruit. What about the head?There isn’t one?

I close my eyes and dream the dreamsof the ancient people.



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Memnona oãi

… gledajo kralja, ki je kraljica, in njen korakse sli‰i med sobanami solza, kjer alabaster bel

prekriva vso resnico in pelje pot donesmrtnosti sonãnega boga.… dva voj‰ãaka nemo zreta, daleã v prividin ãas ljudi, ko je zarja odklepala preddverja —na prestolu kralj, ki je kraljica, spet sedi. Joãe?Se spra‰uje in obupuje, ker pozna nesmrtnost dni.Dva voj‰ãaka opazuje in ãas kot pesekv niã se skotali.… ãe bi svet imel stopnice,

izklesane v kamen kot v liste piramide,bi od‰la na vrh plo‰ãadi, tja, kjer ptice gnezdijov dobri nadi in se ãas rojeva v perutih lastovice.Tako pa v prahu daljne deÏele gledam suhe oblake,sedim pred Memnonovimi mrtvimi oãmi,

kot skalnati peãat teÏak je Anubisa korak.… dva sta zvita v pu‰ãavi, dva, ki znata tehtati,prestopati alabastrne stopnice in njuna sencase vidi daleã do neba.Prvi mrtvo gleda skalnate previse, obraz kraljice,



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ki je vsa iz zlata, da bi na‰el izvir pravicein odnesel usodo tja do neba.

Drugi spil je v strugi podzemne reke vsa Ïivljenja,ne sme povzpeti se dalj, do diska zlatega.… granitno ãrna je usoda, poplavljena z reko, ki ne ve,da je njeno plodno blato vir Ïivljenja, vrã skrbi.Rahlo se dotaknem bele skorje na portalu hi‰e

brez vrat, ko me zagrne ãudna senca —faraona mrtvega kamniti obraz.… spiram s telesa si spomine, ãase, tam, kjer je rekapogoltnila ljudi, njih obrise ri‰e luna v sfingin obrazin v ru‰evine zvezdnatih poti. Niã veã ne pomagajojok in sanje, mrtve ru‰evine, ko pu‰ãavski pesekspet prina‰a stare slike nekoã tako Ïivih ljudi.… ãrke, ki so slike in besede; potovanja in prerokbe,vklesane v granit, mi obljubljajo spet ãase,

ko s pu‰ãavskim psom jih doÏivim. LajeÏ in Ïivljenje,kaj ni to dokaz, da je biti in iskati veã, kot biv pu‰ãavskem pesku risala Ïe izklesan obraz.… veter vzhoda in napeta jadra ãrnih barkaãje zaklenil in odpihnil ãas. Niã vpra‰anj in niã

spominov — tu sem Ïe bila.Skarabej oÏivi, smeji se s steklenimi oãmi in vem,v naslednjem krogu Ïivljenja zagotovo ob meni sedi!



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The eyes of Memnon

... they watch the king that is queen and her stepis being heard between the halls of tears, where white

alabastercovers the whole truth and the path leadsto immortality of the god of sun.... two warriors stare silently, far away to an apparitionand the time of people when dawn was unlocking the

vestibules —on the throne sits the king that is queen. Is he crying?

Wandering and despairing, for he knows the immortalityof days.

Watching the two warriors and the time like sandrolls itself into nothing.... if the world had stairs,carved into stone like leaves of a pyramid,I’d go to the top of the platform, where the birds are

nestingin good faith, and time is being born in the wings of aswallow.

Instead I’m gnawing the dry clouds in the dust of thedistant land,



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sitting before Mnemon’s dead eyes,with Anubis’ step being heavy as a stony signet.

...two are rolled up in the desert, two that know how toweigh,

to shift the alabaster stairs and their shadowcan be seen far from the sky.The first watches numbly the rocky overhangs, the face ot

the queenall of gold, to find the spring of truthand take the destiny to the sky.The second drank all the lives from the riverbed of an

underground river,he cannot ascend any further, to the golden disc.... the fate is granite black, overflown by the river that

doesn’t knowthat her fertile mud is the source of life, the pitcher of

troubles.Softly I touch the white rind of the porchof the doorless house, when a strange shadow covers methe dead pharaoh’s stony face.... I wash off all the memories, times from my body, where

the riverhas swallowed the people, their faces being drawn into thesphinx’s face

and the ruins of starry paths. Everything is of no avail,weeping and dreaming, the dead ruins, as the desert sand



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brings back images of the once living people.... letters, being images and words; travels and prophecies,

carved into granite, promise me the timesas I relive them with the desert dog. Barking and living,isn’t that the evidence that being alone and searchingis more than drawing the carved face into the desert sand.… the eastern wind and the stretched sails of black barges

were locked and blown away by time. No questionsand no more memories — I’ve here before.The scarab comes to life, laughing with its glazde eyes, and

I know,in the next circle of life he will definitely sit by my side!



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Pu‰ãavski pes … v pu‰ãavi ni megle, sonce grize obzorjein mogoãni veter ãe‰e ljudi,du‰o mojo hladi,

ki kot pes pu‰ãavski stoka in ri‰e nevidne zvezdena obraze, temne lise ãasa zbirav rdeão zarjo in v mirno morje.… jata ptic zahodnih deÏel, s praznimi oãmiin z laãnimi kljuni i‰ãe gnezda, toplo sapojuÏnih morij, med jokom pu‰ãavskega psain mojih preteklih Ïivljenj,za mir in za tolaÏbo sede v srce —ptica neskonãnosti.

… dan se prebudi iz kovinsko modre temev zlatorumeno sonce, v ãas, ki nima ure,je dan, ko pu‰ãavski pes pozabi, da sem tu,in me gleda kot ãlovek zasanjan, brez sramu.Sem pri njem Ïe bila v enem prej‰njih Ïivljenj?

… vonj di‰av juÏnih morij in smeh ãokoladnih ljudivtiram v koÏo in spomin za ãase, ko pozabim,kako sije sonce z ravnin in kdo se mi smehlja,ko pu‰ãavski pes leÏe k meni in vedno bolj boliÏelja, da bi bila tu doma.



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… bila sem ob reki sedmih izvirov, pu‰ãavski pesmi je sledil in skupaj sva lizala rane, rane od sonca

in rane srca v barvi Tuaregov. Njihovo sonce ne Ïgev tême in obraz, le oÏarja nebo kot modra kovinain prepla‰eni psi okrog tabora ljudi pobirajokosti, ki nimajo barve. Reka sedmih izvirov patam daleã nekje i‰ãe novo pot in skriva zaklade

tisoãletij v svoje plodno blato.… tisoãletni alabastrni spomeniki vpijajo ãas inprevpijejo Ïeljo, da ãasa ni, ker je minljivost prihodnostin preteklost neskonãnost. Tu sva tako majhna,pu‰ãavski pes pa liÏe kamen, kot bi vedel, da je tuÏe bil, da sva tu Ïe bila. Pod obeliskom pa rastetanova palma, nova mo‰eja in sfingin obraz samozaãudeno strmi — daleã v Dolino kraljev.… je ãudeÏ, ãudeÏ Ïivljenja obdrÏal svet na nogah,

s skalami in pu‰ãavskim peskom zidan, tolikokratprehojen z nogami in s klinasto pisavo vklenjen v spomin.Pu‰ãavski pes mi sledi, ãudeÏ njegovega Ïivljenja mespravlja z bogovi in s kralji, da bom naslednjiã prinesla kost,ki ne bo bela od sonca. Tudi njemu sledim, ko i‰ãem

vzhod in izvir sedmih rek.… pu‰ãavski pesek pa grize dalje, v ãase, ko bomobnemogla obsedela na domaãem pragu, pod ‰otoromstarosti in pestovala korenino roÏe enoletne,ki je tudi voda bistra ne oÏivi.



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The desert dog

... in the desert there’s no fog, the sun is biting the horizonand the mighty wind is combing people,

cooling my soul,that like the desert dog groans and draws invisible starson faces, collecting the dark blurs of timeinto red dawn and calm sea.... a flock of birds from the western lands with empty eyesand hungry beaks is searching for nests, the warm breezeof the southern seas, between the cries of the desert dogand my past lives,for peace and comfort sits into the heart —

the bird of infinity.... the day awakens from the metal-blue darknessinto a golden-yellow sun, into time without a watch,that is the day when the desert dog forgets that I’m here,looking at me like a reverie man, without any shame.

Have I lived here before, in one of the past lives?... the scents of the southern seas and the laughter of thechocolate people

I rub into my skin for the times when I’ll forgethow the sun shines from the plains and who smiles at me,



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when the desert dog lies next to me and the wishfor this to be my home becomes more painful.

... I’ve been by the river with seven springs, the desert doghas been following me and together we’ve licked the

wounds from the sunand the sunny wounds, coloured like Tuaregs. Their sun

doesn’t scorch

necks and faces, it illuminates the sky like a blue metal,the flurried dogs around the camp are gatheringcolourless human bones. While the river with seven

springsfar away is searching for a new path and hiding the

treasuresof millennial into its rich slime.... millennial alabaster monuments are absorbing timeand shouting down the wish for the disappearance of time,

for transitoriness is the future, past the infinity.Here we are so small, while the desert dogis licking stone as if it knows,that he has already been here, we have already been here.Underneath the obelisk grows a new palm,

a new mosque, while the sphinx’s facegazes in astonishment — far to the Valley of Kings.... has the miracle of life kept the world on its feet,I build with rocks and desert sand, walked overso many times and with cuneiform chained into memory.



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The desert dog is following me, the miracle of his lifereconciles me with gods and kings, the next time I’ll bring

a bone,not white from the sun. I follow him also, while searcingfor the east and the spring of the seven rivers.... the desert sand frets on, into the times when I’llsit weakened on the home threshold, under the tent

of oldness, dandling the root of an annual flower,that even pure water can no longer revive.



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Pravljica v pesku

V pesku sem na‰la pravljico,dogodek dneva,

obarvan z barvo rdeãih ãe‰enj,z listi, polnimi zelenilain z objokanimi starkami,ki so se prepozno zavedele svojestarosti,preperelih rok in gomazeãe krvi —mrtve, a vendar moãno obarvane.Vsem in vsakomursem verjela na besede,

ki so kakor prah ‰elestelemed praznimi konci dneva. Zato, da bi smelapogoltniti rdeão ãe‰njo, kar sredi sadovnjaka,med ljudmi, ki me ne poznajoin se zaman trudijo prepoznati moje ãrte obraza.

In ogenj je gorel do neba,listi trave so se spreminjali v pepel,globoko in daleã se je sli‰alo hlastanje poÏeruha.âarovnica noãi se je odela v zelenilo listov,v grobe veje mrtvega drevesa,



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v poteptane ãe‰nje in v laãna usta sipkega sveta.Pravljica je zgorela,

sredi dneva, v ognju Ïareãem do suhega pepela.Sem zaman bedela,ko je sredi rdeãih ãe‰enj pomlad od‰la,z voza, polnega vsevednega blaga?



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A fairy tale in the sand

In the sand I found a story,a highlight of the day,

coloured by red cherries,with leaves of the colour greenand tearful gammersthat realized their agejust a little too late,with rotten hands and crawling blood —dead, yet so strongly coloured.I believed in wordsof all and everyone,

in words that rustled like dustamong the empty ends of days.So that I could swallow the red cherry,right there in the orchardamong the unknown people

that try so hard, although in vain,to recognize the lines of my face.The fire blazed all the way to the sky,with the grass turning into ashes,the glutton’s snatching was heard deeply and from afar.



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The witch of the night covered herself with green leaves,rough branches of a dead tree,

downtrodden cherries and hungry mouth of the sandyworld.

The fairy tale has burnedin the middle of the day,in red-hot fire, to the dry ashes.

Did I sit up late in vain,when the spring left encircled with red cherries,on a cart, full of omniscient goods?



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Katalonska serenada

Za hi‰o sem posadila topol.Vitko in zeleno drevo.

S koreninami objema prag,z listi hladi obraz.Moj topol,senãnati spomin Katalonije.

Okrogli stolpi v mojem vrtu,beli, mozaiãni in ãrni,teptajo senco topola,gnetejo spomin barcelonskih

stopnic,vetrnic ‰irne Katalonije.

ârna pahljaãa plesalke flamenkahladi moje otrple ustnice,

glasno petje v areniv topolovi osami odmirakot preteklost potokov in gora‰irne Katalonije.



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ârna riba posu‰enega morja,zgnetenega v otoke in ljudi,

spraskanega s koÏe velike ribe,sameva, kot kip velikan rdi.Na obreÏju morja Kolumbovih sanjse v kristal noãi odeva.

Je to moj topol, sredi vrta?Spomin, ki odira koÏo s telesa,strah, da Katalonije veã ne bo,se bo milost dneva raztopila,v prah, v ãrno zemljo?

Katalonski spomin praskamv prizemljeni du‰iin bel ‰al vihra iz Dalijevih

slik,obrnjena narobe sem kotãlove‰ki mozaik.



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The Catalan serenade

Behind the house I planted a poplar.A slender green tree.

With its roots it embraces the threshold,with its leaves it cools your face.My poplar,the shadowy reminiscence of Catalonia.

The rounded steeples in my garden,white, mozaic and black,are trampling the poplar’s shadow,swarming the memory

of the stairs in Barcelona,the windmills of wast Catalonia.

The flamenco dancer’s black folding fanis cooling my numb lips,

the loud singing inside the arenaawakens the bullfighter,dying away in poplar’s solitudelike the past of streams and mountainsof the was Catalonia.



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The black fish of the parched ocean,crushed into islands for people,

scratched from the skin of a big fish,is living in solitary, redding like a giant statue.On the shores of Columbus’ dreamscovering into the night’s crystal.

Is that my poplar in the garden?A memory, flaying the skin of the body,a fear that Catalonia will be no more,will the day’s grace dissolveinto dust, into black earth?

I scratch the Catalan memoryin the grounded soulof the natal roots.

A white scarf is flutteringfrom Dali’s paintings,I am inverted sidewayslike a forgotten monument.



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Serenata de Cataluña

He palantado un álamo detrás de mi casaun árbol delgado y gris.

Sus raíces abrazan el umbralsus ojas me refrescan la cara.Mi álamo,El recuerdo sombrío de Cataluña.

Las torres redondas en mi jardín,blancas, negras y de mosaico,pisotean la sombra del álamo,amasan el recuerdo de escaleras

barcelonesas,de giradillas de Cataluña.

El abanico negro de bailaorarefresca mis labios tiesos,

el canto alto en la arenaestá muriendo en la soledad del álamocomo el pasado de arroyos y montañasde vasta Cataluña.



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El pez negro de mar seca,amasada en islas y gente,

arañada da la piel del pez grande,está solo, ardiendo como estatua gigante.En la costa de los sueños de Colónse abriga en el cristal de la noche.

Es mio, el álamo en medio del jardin?el recuerdo que desolla la piel del cuerpo,el miedo de que Cataluña ya no volverá,desolverá la gracia del díaen polvo, en tierra negra?

Raspo el recuerdo de Cataluñaen el alma puesta de los nubes a la tierray un pañuelo blanco vuela de los

cuadros de Dalí,estoy al revés comoun mosaico humano.



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Barcelonska slika

Na koÏi, na obrazu in v oãehse mi razlivajo

ãrni ãipkasti balkoni,mesto kot kost belih barvin z Mirojevo modro in rumenoslikam ogledala na nebu.

Oblaki drvijokot pobegli jezdeci,medijo na vrhu koniãastih,v nebo proseãih stebrov.

Vsrkava me sozvoãje, barveneba in zemlje.

Ko si oddahnem, stresem prah z nog,pod balkonom posedim, se zavem,

milost dneva se bo raztopila,verige bodo poãile,s smehom se bo slika napolnila.



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Tu,med Kolumbovim mestom

in sanjsko deÏelo prividov,polno zlata in Ïelja,prepeva du‰a moja, se veãnosti smehlja.



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The painting of Barcelona

On the skin, the face and in the eyesthe black lacery balconies,

the bony white cityare spilling over,as I paint the sky’s mirrorswith Miro’s blue in yellow.

Clouds are rushinglike runaway horsemen,mellowing on the top of the pointedskyward facing pillars.

The concord, the colours of sky and earthare absorbing me.

I take a breather, shake the dust from my feet,sit under a balcony as I realize,

the day’s grace will melt away,the chains will break,the painting will become full of laughter.



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Here,between the Columbus’ city

and the dreamy land of apparitions,full of gold and wishesmy soul is singing, smiling to eternity.



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Cuadro de Barcelona

En mi piel, mi cara, mis ojos

se derraman balcones negros de encajela cuidad de color blanco como de huesoy con el azul y amarillo de Mirópinto los espejos en el cielo.

Los nubes correncomo jinetes huyendo,Se maduran en los cumbres de pilares,agudos que piden al cielo.

Me absorben los acordes, coloresDel cielo y de la tierra.

Después de descansar, sacudo el polvo de mis piesme siento un ratito bajo el balcon, me entero,

la gracia del día se disolverácadenas van a romper,risa el cuadro llenará.



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Aquí,entre la ciudad de Colón

y el país maravilloso de ilusiónes,lleno de oro y de deseos,mi alma canta y se sonrie a la enternidad.



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Veter sedmih griãevOd Poncija do Pilatame ogreva sonãna cesta,Via Appia mojih sanj.

V deÏju se deÏela spominarazodeva,ponikla v potok kristalnih pajãevin.

Sem vesolje,razdeljeno na obdobja,kaãa, zvita pod pragomneba,potuhnjena iskra ognja

na oltarju nevidnih Ïelja.

Od Poncija do Pilatami prepeva Ovid,je pesem njegova ãasa

pozlata,razgrnjena v mojih kostehkot nepote‰ena hrana duhain prhutajoãa pticaminulega sveta.



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Prehodila sem sedem griãev.Îe na prvih stopnicah

me je spregledal sveãenik:si zarja, ãas pregreh,temna lutnja ti poje,smrt ima‰ v oãeh!

Bojim se naslednjih ‰estih.PrekriÏanih meãev, dolgih noãi.Tako prelestno me obsijeãarovnika smeh,da spet pozabim na kraj in spomine,leÏem v pesek in v prahz afri‰kih cest.

Oljka di‰i med stebri Koloseja,

med oboki in stenamikjer mi vsi iz daljnih deÏelpijemo iz vodnjaka Ïeljakapljice sreãe in dih minulega sveta.



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The wind of seven knolls From pillar to postI’m warmed by the sunny road,Via Apia of my dreams.

In the rain the land of memoryis revealing itself,sunk into the streamof crystal depths.

I am the universe,divided into eras,a snake rolled upunderneath the sky’s threshold,

a covert spark of fireon the altar of invisible wishes.

From pillar to postOvid is singing to me,

his song beingthe time’s golding,spread out in my bones,an unconsoled spiritual food,all the doors are closed for me.



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I crossed the seven knolls.At the first stairs

a priest noticed me,you are like the time’s dawn vice,a dark lute is singing to you,death is in your eyes.

I’m afraid of the next six.The crossed swords, the long nights.The wizard’s laughteris charmingly shining upon me,erasing this place and keepsakes from my memory,I lay in the sand and dustof the African roads.

I know all seven of them.

Here I’m almost at home.I give an olive-tree birch to everyone,divided into duskI finally surrender myself.



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Dvanajsti krog

Prvi stopi na brv —kralj neba.

Drugi Ïanje valove —cesar morja.Tretji kliãe vihar —tlaãan sveta.âetrti zvezde ‰teje —glasnik gorja.Peti ptice zbira —sovraÏnik Ïivega.·esti kliãe dan —

vladar srca.Sedmi iz noãisedmino naroãi.Osmi ri‰e krog —pozna ga moj bog.

Deveti razprostira telo —ljubezen je kot drevo.Deseti podarja glas —ãloveku raste v du‰i klas.



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Enajsti hi‰e noãi gradi —straÏar je mojih poti.

Dvanajsti nima obraza, telesa —smrt je ko‰ãena.Njej je vedno odprta lesa.



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The twelfth circle

The first steps on the footbridge —the king of sky.

The second reaps the waves —the emperor of sea.The third calls the storm —the world’s thrall.The fourth counts the stars —the herald of sorrow.The fifth collects the birds —the enemy of all that’s living.The sixth calls the day —

the regent of heart.The seventh orders repastfrom the night.The eighth draws a circle —my god knows him.

The ninth unfolds the body —love is like a tree.The tenth donates voice —in man’s soul a spike is growing.



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The eleventh builds night’s houses —he’s the guard of my paths.

The twelfth has no face, no body —death is bony.The gates are always open for it.



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Prasketanje

Stopicanjena mestu,

med stolom in med mizo,pod svetilko,oÏarjens svetlobo noãi,prekoraka‰ dneve,neviden v mojiprisotnosti,zdramljen v senci,plazeãi se med okni,

odsev v prstanuna moji roki.Stopicanje na mestuje karma tvoje du‰e,posledica vseh noãi.

Zadnji korak,ki vodi do izvira,negotov, plesniv,blaten in sploh ni tvoj.Tu bi lahko imele



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ptice gnezdo,‰torklje svoj dimnik,

jeÏ jesensko kosilo,vendar ne bi opazil,spet ne bi opazil,plazeãega veãerav mojih oãeh,

mraz in hlad pa takoali tako domujetav tvojih dlaneh.



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The cracling

Trippingin the same spot,

between the table and the chair,under the lamp,illuminatedby the night’s light,you march through days,invisiblein my presence,awakened in the shadowcrawling between the windows,

in the ring in my palm.Tripping in the same spotis the karma of your soul,an outcome of all the nights.The last step

that leads to the spring,insecure, mouldy,soiled and not yours at all.Here the birdscould make their nest,



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storks their chimney,hedgehogs their autumn lunch,

still you wouldn’t notice,again you wouldn’t noticethe crawling eveningin my eyes, cold andfreshness are dwelling

in your palms anyway.



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Refleksija

Podnevi sem Ïiva,kosti in kri

me opominjajo na to.Ko se znoãise v du‰i moji kamen obrne,postelja izginein postanem prah.V tistem ãasu,ki nima kazalcev in smrtisva obe stali.Moja prijateljica

in jaz.Naslanjali sva se na ograjoin strmeli v svetlobo,ki se je bliÏala, bliÏala,bil je ukaz.

Takrat je podobav mislih gorela,brez ustnic, ‰epetala:pojdita z menoj,v kraje brez oblakov,



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v ãase brez sonca,med brate svetleãe.

Ta ãudni ukazje obema iznakazil obraz.Med obrvmi sem ãutila roke,mrtve dlani.Prijateljica moja pa kima:

jaz pojdem, pojdi ‰e ti!Ne morem, ne znam, noãem,sem v mislih brzela,ko je odpeljal svetleãi trupla,Ïe zdavnaj prej zoglenela.Takrat sem spoznala,v smrti sem prah izbrala.To, da sem tu,v postelji brez medu,

je ãas,ki me opominja na noã:vse se povrne, vse ‰e pride!



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The reflexion

At day I am alive,my bones and blood

remind me of that. When night fallsthe rock in my soul turns,the bed disappearsand I become dust.In that timewith no pointers and deathwe both stood still.My friend

and me. We leaned against the fencestaring at the lightcoming closer and closer,that being a command.

That’s when the imagein my mind was burning,whispering without lips:come with me,come see the places without clouds,



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the times without sun,visit the glowing brothers.

That weird commanddeformed both of our faces.I felt the hands between my eyebrows,dead palms;while my friend was nodding:

I’m going, go with me!I can’t, don’t know how, don’t want toran through my mindas the glitter took away the bodiescharred a long time ago.That’s when I realizedin death I chose the dust.The fact that I was there,in bed without honey,

is time,reminding me of the night:all is repayed, all is yet to come!



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Di‰ave jutra

Med vrvmi poletjaje mogoãna sled.

In med skalami jesenije potok,ki pelje v drug svet.Tam na Jutrovem,kjer so di‰ave mo‰usa inceder,je daljava blizu.Tam bije ãas poãasneje,ker dan je Bog in noã

njegov kljuã.



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The morning fragrances

Between the ropes of summerlies a mighty trail.

And between the rocks of falllies a brook,leading to another world.There at the Levant,where the fragrances of muskand cedars are,the remoteness seems near.Time passes slowly there,for the day is God and the night

his key.



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Nasmehni se

Nasmehni se,bog v sveti‰ãu,

nasmehni,da bom vedela,videla tvoj svet,da bom preproga in ãas,v svetlobo veãnosti ujet.Saj ve‰,da bom spet pri‰lana vrata tvoja in na prag.Saj ve‰,

da si prvi in zadnjiv mojih noãeh —ãas in preteklost,breza in most.Dovoli, da vstopim

kot prvi gost!

Nasmehni se mi,moj Bog!



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Smile

Smile,God in the temple,

smile,so that I will know,I will see your world,that I will become a carpet and time,trapped in eternal light.For you know,that I shall returnto you doorstep and threshold.For you know,

that you are the first and the lastin my nights —the time and the past,the birch and the bridge.Let me enter,

let me be the first guest.

Smile,my God.



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Obraz ob zidu

Nisem poznala sveta,gora zakletih in

‰irnega morja.Ne vem,ali ob vodi vodomec poje,se v zrnu peska skriva spomin,ker te nisem poznala.Bila sem z morjem zakrita,v vetru ljubljena inv gore skrita —sem to jaz,

ãrna noã spomina,ladja brez vesel in drevesastoletnega korenina.Vsa zrcala nebaso v usta moja vtisnjena,

vsi zameti sneÏniso legli v moja nedra,vsa stoletja krvi in sanjpestujem v dlani —pa ne poznam sveta,



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ljudi, neba, gorja.Ne vidim veã,

ne sli‰im veã.Le med tanko ãrto spominase svetlikajo luna, sonce, dokaz.V zrcalu pa nenadoma — obraz,ki ve, ki me spozna,

in ko na ustne moje dahne poljubodre‰enja,vem, konec je iskanja tega sveta!



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The face by the wall

I didn’t know the world,the cursed mountains

and the spacious sea.I don’t knowif a kingfisher is singing by the water,if a memory is hiding in the grain of sand,for I did not know you.I was covered by the sea,loved in the windand hidden between the mountains —is that me,

the memory’s black night,the ship without oars and the rootof a hundred-year-old tree.All the mirrors of the skyare imprinted in my mouth,

all the snowdriftsare lying in my bosom,all the centuries of blood and dreamsI’m nursing in my palm —yet not knowing the world,



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the people, the sky, the sorrow.I can’t see no more,

I can’t hear no longer.Only amidst the narrow line of memorythe moon is glittering, the sun, the evidence.In the mirror suddenly appears the facethat knows, recognizes me

and as the salvatory kisstouches my lipsI know, the search for this world is over.



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Jeruzalem, Jeruzalem

Ko bi vedela takrat, ko sem ‰e spala,da je noã dan in svetloba vse,

kar je svetu umrljivost dala.Ko bi vedela takrat, ko sem ‰e spala,da bo beseda meso postalain smeh ljudi z lic pregnala.Ko bi vedela takrat, ko sem ‰e spala,da sta vonj oljke in toplina soncasamo kaÏipot,pra‰na cesta in mrtva‰ki prt.

Ko bi vedela takrat, ko sempri zidu objokovanja stala,da bom pregnala misel na vse,kar mi je v Ïivljenju doslej kri krviv okove okovala.

Konãno sem svobodna, polna in brez sanj.

Gledam v nebo, ple‰em s spomini —Jeruzalem, Jeruzalem....



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Jerusalem, Jerusalem

If only I had known when I was still asleep,that night is day and light is everything

that mortality gave to the world.If only I had known when I was still asleep,that the word will become fleshand wipe the smiles from people’s faces.If only I had known when I was still asleep,that the olive’s scent and the sun’s warmthare only a waymark,a dusty road and the cadaverous cloth.

If only I had known,when I was standing by the wall of mourning,that I will banish the thought of everythingthat in life the bloodhas chained in shackles.

Finally I am free, full and dreamless.

I watch the skies, dance with memories —Jerusalem, Jerusalem...



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Kretske slike

Ob mrtvem morju Atlantidesanjam ãase,

v ognjenih zubljih Kasandrine besedei‰cem masko, privid izgubljenih ãudes!Z boso nogo teptam oglu‰ela polja,si zakrivam slepoto in gorkotonikdar videnih, a v meni speãihãudeÏnih dreves.Mrtvo morje Atlantideje v tebi, meni, vseh ljudeh.Kakor prerokba in obeti,

strah pred Ïivljenjem in grmado,ki jo priÏiga ãas neskonãnosti.Vse to sem na‰la med zakladi Atlantide, v sebi —ti pa pojdi, kamor hoãe‰ —na‰la se bova v isti toãki — v neskonãnosti!



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The Cretean images

By the dead sea of AtlantisI dream about the times of ill shadows,

in the flames of Cassandra’s wordI seek for a mask, an apparition of the lost wonders!

With a bare foot I tread upon the deaf fields,concealing the blindness and the warmthof the never seen, yet inside of me sleepingmiraculous trees.The dead sea of Atlantisis inside of you, of me, of all the people.Like a prophecy and promises,

the fear of the life and the stake,flamed by the time of infinity.All that I found among the treasures of Atlantis, inside of

me —you go where you want to —

we will find each other in the same place — the infinity!



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Noã v Knososu

Na cestah so primrznile luÏe

in ptice, ki so ‰e zjutrajimele svetel pogled, so v Ïametzavile jutranjo svetlobo.V prezeblih drevesih je skrivali‰ãe,polno modrega neba in srebrnega ivja,prazno obljub in prasketanja ognja.Vse te ptice svetaso du‰e ãlove‰kega, smrt prijateljain odmrla pomlad nekega jutra.

Le kdaj je imel ãas moãprigrizniti sonca obraz, poniknitiv valove mrtvega morja in seobleãi v sanjske cvetove?Obzidje, ki s svojo belino

razgalja ãas,me kot utrujeno popotnico privabi,naslonim se nanj,da bi sli‰ala znan glas.



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Ura ãasa bije, na rogovih daritvenega bika,v senci tisoãletnega drevesa.

Komu ãas tiktakav tej nesli‰ni uri.



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A night in Knosos

The puddles on the roads have frozen,

and the birds, that in the morninglooked so brightly, have wrappedthe morning light in velvet.In the benumed trees lies a hideout,full of blue skies and silver rime,empty of promises and the crackle of fire.All the birds of this worldare the souls of humanity, a death of a friendand the withered spring of a morning.

When did he have the timeto take a snack at the sun’s face, to sinkinto the waves of the dead seaand dress into dreamy blossoms.The walls, unfolding the time

with its whiteness,invites me like a tired wanderer,I lean on itto hear a familiar voice.



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The clock is ticking on the horns of the sacrificial bull,in the shadows of the thousand-year-old tree.

For whom the clock ticksin this inaudible hour.



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Bizantinski mozaik

V zlati kletki ptica,na obzidje prikovana,

iz ãasov rdeãih zahodov,molitev in tlakovanih stopnic.Kamnita pesem ãasov,zdrobljena v drobna zrnausode,ki se preliva v klepsidrimodrega kamenja na strehimodrosti.V kosteh ãutim topot konj,

rahlo valovanje morja in‰um suliãarja,ki me z meãem pozdravlja,ko sedim na prestoluizbrisanih ãasov,

ãasovnikdar poru‰enega obzidja,nikdar razpetega ‰otora.Konjenik dneva me vodi,‰epeta, umira skupaj z menoj.



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Ob vratu me ti‰ãisvila azijskih poti,

zrak cesarskih soban intemina sveti‰ãa.V oãi so se naselili mavrica,mozaik stopni‰ãa inbela jadra,

svetlikajoãa se za obzorjem,kjer bo bizantinski mozaikizginil med stopalitujih nog.



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Byzantian mosaic

In the golden cage of bird,nailed to the battlement,

from the times of red sunsets,prayers and paved steps.Stony poem of the times,shattered into tiny grains of destiny,decanting in the watery clock of blue pebbles on the roof of wisdom.My bones full of horses stomping,

of seas billowing andthe lancer’s buzzing,greeting me with his sword,while I’m seated on the throne of erased times,

times,of battlements never destroyed,of the tent never extended.The horseman of the day is leading me,whispering, dying along with me.



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Silk of the Asian paths,air of emperor’s chambers and

dimness of the templeare squeezing me by the neck.Rainbow settles in my eyes,the mosaic of the staircase andships, setting their white sails,

glimmering beyond the horizon,where the Byzaintian mosaicwill vanish between the traces of foreign feet.



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CIMBALE IN SVILA



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Nadir Pridem iz noãi kot ptica izginulih daljav, se obleãem

v svilo in se grem sanje. Na predpraÏniku dneva me kljuvaãas,prestreza me dolgost sonãnega vzhodaMoja hãi biva med kamnitimi stebri obzidja mesta,daleã od sanj in tako blizu resniãnosti.

Njej sveti luã prihodnosti.

DopoldanKokonska mreÏa noãi mi ni zameglila oãi. ·e veã,

nisem se predala dihanju iz pljuã, ki so bila nekoã samodrobna

pika, solze neke druge du‰e in oblaãila bitja iz ãasov ãasov.Moj sin biva med stezami podeÏelja, blizu betonskih oblik,‰e bliÏe goram, ki nezavedno meãejo milijone let stare

sencev razbolele novodobne kotanje sveta.



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BliÏajoãi opoldanSonãna ura bije v moji senci. Zastiram si oãi in se trudim

pozabiti nevidnega sovraÏnika v zraku, liso neba, ki ‰tejeuredo polnoãi. Kristali neba pa mi stopljeni Ïro koÏo, ‰e veã,ãlovek iz prsti in iz krvi mi bo zme‰al prihodnost .Moj prijatelj pa je zajahal konja, se spravil s soncem

in z besedo.

Medium coeliVidela sem ga v preddverju, senco opoldansko,

ko je s svojim prozornim telesom bil v oãi kot opozorilo,beÏala sem pred njim. Pri‰el je s ãrne zvezde, z deÏnikom,polnim deÏja, in moje srce ni veã vedelo, ne kod ne kam!Z ljubim sva zbeÏala oba. Vendar ne zaradi strahu,le od neizgovorjenih Ïelja. V popoldanski mrak,v popoldansko senco!



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Varljivo opoldneNa robu hi‰e stoji temno drevo, ob njem igra

cigan na cimbale. Njegova Ïenska v pisanem krilu ple‰ein se smehlja. Za njim stojiva midva, odeta v svilo veãera,in skodelice iz kovine praskajo po strunah, trgajo danin ga shranjujejo v veãnost.Njegove oãi in tvoje roke listajo po mojem telesu,

temno drevo ob hi‰i postane svileno glasbilo,cimbale vrÏem stran.

Zenit Dan, ki je leto kot nadir, in noã, ki objema ãasin ga zaklepa v zenit, sta kot strgane strune cimbal —vse se dogodi v eni noãi ljubezni, med vesoljem in med

ljudmi.Za naju bo vstal dan in ljubezenska noã bopozabljena v Ïepu zimskega pla‰ãa.



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CYMBALS AND SILK



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Nadir I come from the night, like a bird from lost distances, I

dress upand play dreams. Time is pecking me on the threshold of day,

the lenght of the sunrise is parrying me a blow.My daughter is dwelling among the stony pillars of the

city’s walls,far away from dreams, yet so close to reality.The light of the future is shining for her.

Morning The cocoon net of the night did not fog my eyes. Even

more,I did not succumb to the breathing of lungs that were once

just a tinydot, tears of some other soul and the being’s clothes from

the times’ times.My son is dwelling among the provincial paths, near the

concrete forms,



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even closer to the mountains, that unknowingly throw themillions of years old shadows

into the aching modern hollows of the world.

The approaching noon

The sundial is beating in my shadow. I’m covering my eyesand tryingto forget the invisible foe in the air, a blur of the skies, that

counts the hoursuntil midnight. The melted crystals of the skies are

devouring my skin, even more,the man of mould and blood will form my future.My friend jumped on a horse, making peace with the sun

and the word.

Medium coeliI saw him in the lobby, the noon’s shadow,when it tolled in warning with it’s lucid body,I fled away from him. He came from a black star, with an

umbrellafull of rain and left my heart puzzled, not knowing where

to go.I ran away with my loved one. Not in fear,



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but because of the unuttered desires. Into the afternoondusk,

into the afternoon shadow.

The delusive afternoonThere’s a tree at the edge of the house, by it

a gypsy plays the cymbals. His woman in the gaily skirtdancing

and smiling. Behind him there’s us, covered with theevening’s silk,

the tin cups are scratching the strings, tearing the day,

saving it into eternity.His eyes and your hands are skimming through my body,the dark tree by the house becoming a silk instrument,i throw the cymbals away.

ZenithThe day, which is as nadir and night, which embraces timeand locks it into the zenith, is as the torn strings of the

cymbalseverything happening in one night of love, between the

universe and the people.The day will rise for us and the night of love will stayforgotten in the winter-coat’s pocket.



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S

tvar je prav imenitna! Veãina pesmi vsebuje in oddajamoãno energijo, doÏivljajski zapleti med Jazom in

Svetom so privlaãni in sugestivni. V celoti gre za nekakpesni‰ki sprehod po mitskem Sredozemlju, po obmoãju oÏjecivilizacije, uvod pa je oãitno v znamenju rodovnih koreninpesni‰kega Jaza. Pot skozi ãas in prostor ali, kot bi rekelKosovel, ”mistika ãasoprostorna”. Posebej ãestitam za pesemDvanajsti krog. Tej pesmi dajem prvenstvo, ãeprav jeodliãnih pesmi na pretek. Res razveseljivo! Ob va‰ih pesmihse spominjam lastnih blodenj po Sredozemlju (Grãija, Italija,Turãija, Egipt, seveda tudi ·panija...) V Knososu se res ãuti

prisotnost nekdanjih ali veãnih gr‰kih boÏanstev … Andrijan Lah



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Zemljekrog - Sonja Koranter