VRT, BACH GARDEN, BACH
Uro Zupan trans. Ana Jelnikar & Stephen Watts
(from Slovene)
Tu ni smrti. Vse oblike se le pretakajo druga
v drugo. Vse plava in lebdi. Ko zaprem oči,
vidim makadam, ki leti v nebo. Akacije se
razdajajo s svojimi sencami, razsipajo belilo
vonja, češnje jim odgovarjajo z druge strani
vrta, z zunanjega roba dneva. Njihova govorica
bo kmalu postala rdeča. Pročelja sivorjavih hiš
z gorečimi okni kot mnogoustni velikani jedo
poznopopoldansko sonce. Rumeni bagerji so obglodali
hrib. Majhen sem. Božam majhno muco, nižjo
od majske trave. Slišm glasove ljudi, ki vstopajo
in izstopajo iz hiše za mano. Ko gredo noter,
jih ližeta tema in hlad, ko se vrnejo nazaj ven,
se nanje usuje sončni prah. ¡panski bezeg ločuje
naš vrt od ceste, ločuje naš vrt od sveta. Samo
razdrobljeni glasovi in razrezane sence prihajajo v
njegovo notranjost. Vsi me kličejo po imenu in
polagajo roke na mojo glavo. Ne poznam še besed -
Jeza, Strah, Sovraštvo, Bolečina, Odhod. Ne poznam
prostorov za njihovim zvokom. Ničesar ne poznam,
le ta vrt, neskončen lučaj oči, ki merijo svet.
če se uležem na hrbet, vidim oblake. Če previdno
diham, se oblaki spreminjajo. Zdaj so: letalo,
pasja glava, konj, ovca, dlani prinašalke snega.
Zdaj plujemo skupaj. Sedem morij in devet
gričev je do prve reke in zadnje doline. Nikoli
konec vrta. Nikoli konec sveta. V sobi vseh ur,
ne križišču vseh dni, gori večna luč ali pa
ena sama sveča. Vseeno je. Na notranji meji zlata
se obračajo strani prihodnosti. Ker sem majhen,
jih ne znam brati. Ker sem majhen, se mirno
plazim pod veko časa. Vrata v luč so na stežaj
odprta, tapecirana in mehka. Nikogar ne udarijo,
nikogar ne zavrnejo. Ležim in gledam in neslišno
diham. Vrt se bo vsak hip spremenil v oblak. Tako
lahko najdlje traja v arhivu neba.
Here, there is no death. All forms sift, one from
another. Everything floats and hovers. I shut my eyes
and see macadam sucked up to the skies. Acacias
give generously of their their shadows, strewing the white
of their scent. Cherry trees answer from the far end
of the garden, the outer edges of the day. Their speech
will soon become red. Grey-brown house fronts, with
windows sun-blazed as square-eyed giants, gobble up
the afternoon sun. Yellow digger-trucks scoop away
the hillside. I am small. I stroke a kitten that is smaller
than May-time grass. I hear people's voices coming
and going from the house behind. When they enter, they
are licked by the dark and chill cool, when they exit
they are showered by the sun's dust. Elder flowers
keep the gardens away from the road, the world.
Only crumpled voices and felled shadows come into
its inside. Everyone's calling me by my name and laying
their hands on my head. I don't yet knw the words -
Anger, Fear, Hate, Pain, Leave-taking - I don't know
the spaces behind their sounds. I don't know anything.
Only this garden, an infinite squint to conjure a world.
If I lie on my back, I can see the clouds. If I breathe
calmly, the clouds change: am air-plane, a dog's head,
a horse, a sheep, the whited palms of the snow furies.
Now we sail together. Seven seas and nine hills have we,
to get to the first river, the last valley. Never an end to
this garden. No end to the world. In the rooms of time,
at the crossroads of days eternal light glows, or else
a single candle. It makes no difference. On gold's inner
rim, the future days make circles. Because I'm small,
I cannot read them. Because I'm small. I calmly slide
under the eyelids of Time. Doors into light are wide
open, soft-cushioned. They don't slam shut on anyone,
they don't reject anyone. I lie and watch and I breathe
inaudibly. The garden will be a cloud any minute now.
Like this it can last for ever in the archives of the sky.

Copyright © Uroš Zupan; trans. copyright © Ana Jelnikar & Stephen Watts


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