| VRT, BACH | GARDEN, BACH |
Uro Zupan |
trans. Ana Jelnikar & Stephen Watts (from Slovene) |
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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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