Odšel je,
nihče ni vedel, kam,
sam,
govorili so, da je bolan,
neprespan vsakdan
je zrasel čez krošnje,
vedel ni nihče,
če hoče tam tudi ostati,
zaspati sam …
–
Prišel je,
nihče ni vedel, kdaj,
zakaj,
govorili so, da je rešen,
potešen namen
je napolnil reke,
vedel ni nihče,
če hoče tu tudi ostati
in zaspati …
–
Ne,
nihče ni vedel,
ko je odšel, je prišel,
ne da bi zaspal,
je pa sanjal o krošnjah
in rjovečih rekah,
ki so se mu pretakale po telesu,
pa tega opazil
ni nihče.
the heavy leaves stirring
at midnight;
a black figure rushing through the forest,
his head turned
to see a black wolf.
the sweat coming down the face
as the howling wind tore at his face.
a feeling. he knew.
she was coming to get him.
still running madly he turned and…
…boom! into the tree.
he fell into the mud, the dirt
seeping into his body. there was
nothing he could do.
she was coming down at him!
the strong and rough hands pulled
him up in the sky
and onto her shoulder.
the helpless feeling again
rushed through his mind.
countless minutes passed
through the Oblivion,
where skulls and corpses were staring
he could see her white gown
and her muddy feet.
the atmosphere was something he
could not bear
(hey! but what could he do?!)
until the heart
squeezed by the fear
began to breathe again.
they passed through the pool
from the misty shadowlands
into the care-free, sky-blue,
flowered, honeyed, beed countrylands.
he let out a sigh to see no wolf
(or in disguise)
but blue-rounded eyes
(and mouths) to point happiness.
where was he?
probably dazed by the sweet smells
of hers he forgot to ask for the map!
“because she’s killing me!” he thought.
alas!
they journeyed here to
see the fruits of cupid’s arrow
beware! too late!
he was shot dead through the
heart.
by the cupid’s arrow!
sprehodi po obrežju niso bili nič posebnega
voda je imela moten odsev
drevesa niso bila rastline
le povešeni grbavci
obletavali so jih mrhovinarji
dišal jim je vonj
po umrlem listju in praznini lubja
ribe niso plavale le nemo strmele
vame
gor nedaleč v dolgočasje
čas se je ustavil v teku
ne vidim dlje kot do prve veje
še ta me spominja na beraško palico
na katero vrba ni ponosna
moli jo meni a jaz le molim
da ribice ne bi bile tako ironične
da se mi ujede ne bi tako režale
seveda da drevo ne bi bežalo stran
od mene
ne pozabim da ni nič posebnega
vonj po mavričnih luskah
me spravi v tako grozo
moj želodec pride do številke osem
ko pobruham tla nagnetena z gnilim listjem
nenavadno mi spodrsne
živ dolgčas prazen želodec povešeno življenje
sprehodi so res vsakdanji
če tebe ni
