Pesmi v angleščini

In the next Universe
... we might come across our image
and begin to talk about things
we kept secret

... maybe we discover
who was the shadow
the eye in the lock
as we were filling gold chests with lies

frozen streets will melt
and the branches will shed its icy leaves
in the glow of a new constellation
in the next Universe

but we may stand silent
open the cage
and release
all the words
back to the wilderness

in Silence we fly
to the endless blue
melting into
the glow of a new constellation
in the next Universe

...the flock returned
to wipe its punctuation
One side of the Earth is closed
The Universe lies in the grass with his hands under his head

Quiet birches on the shoreline,
a reflection in the pulsating leaves.
The well-known distance is fading.
The sun descends down the slope.

The lioness grants one last dance
to its young prey.
Which will be the side of victory?
The pendulum is resting.

From the orbit of innocence
nuns beckon.
They roller skate in their naivety,
derailing the passers-by.

The final fashion frontiers of space.

You’re standing on the steps clad so funny,
legwarmers and boat-like shoes.
Rolled up, your trouser legs go well with
the sound of your voice.

I will change your name,
gender, case and number.
Beauty.
You sip me though your narrowed eyelids.

before the poem I’m infinite
stretched through time

in my Garden there’s a quarry
that’s where I live
spinning my little knife
digging with great precision
broken stones
from the pyramid
picking them to be not too big
and easy to understand

choosing those
that shine
those coloured like the sky
the free spirits
those with character
and those that smell of rhythm

with primal ferocity
I eliminate the unfit
and shamelessly claim to own
the souls of the real ones

some of them are pillows
others a crystal massage
some enter dreams
keeping time with change found in playgrounds
the round ones drop from roofs into the laps of seniors and under the tails of cats
those with sharp edges climb the bark of decorative trees
the depressed ones flatten their bellies in the reflections of puddles

in the quarry
I make love to the loved ones
fight the ones that burn
soothe myself with those that feel

stones in a flowering Garden
my volcanic quarry
my words
fleeing and fragile
like ourselves

night night

above the city
above the roofs
a chimney
a bell tower

above treetops in the park
the story of toads’ pond
steps in the garden

above the drowsy
billboards
and a quiet corner

above the henhouse
a fox on full alert

above us
drowsy
in the same shirt made of dreams

night
spread from a shrunken crescent
and snoring crickets
nocturnal brothers

You float in the stream. You are the flow;
water that cracks the walls of sense,
that worns stones and gulps down the earth ahead,
that carries away memories and melts thoughts with noise.

You step on the snowy woodland. You are the peak.
The peak, that, from above, watches through its own stomach and stretches ends in a smile;
that presses snow’s glister on cheeks and feels no cold;
that daydreams of vicinity and paces on the frozen stage.

You take a bow. You are the bow.
Mere endless sky and fanfares out of distant skies.
You are but a curtain behind the scene. And audience crying exultantly. You are the cry.
Bent to bow, grey hairs instruct your slow motion.

Tiresome eyelashes cover your blue eyes. They shiver. You are the shiver.
A moment of false easiness.
A moment that comes down to nothing.
A void. You only need to blink.

Are you flying? You await for your body to fly away in million pieces.
You bend into a pine. Into silence. Your knees, your hands – squeeze them in memory!
From one into another. A shape.
From this to that. A constellation.
A cloth covers the words. The words are beneath you. You are the word.