Rana
Tudi v meni se spomladi razkošati
želja po začetku nečesa novega.
Nekatere stvari pa --
v vintgarju utopljen beli javor,
preko katerega se še vedno po starem peni ledena voda
--ne morejo biti dokončne.
Trmasta praprot se mi med hojo navkreber
vozla v gležnje, odreši me tuhtanja.
Tu, kjer je nebo zeleno,
lahko človek odpušča.
Brezbrižju potoka,
lastnim mislim,
vedno znova kukavici, takoj ko se oglasi,
čeprav iz roda v rod svoje še nerojene otroke
podtika drugi mami.
Ganjena od tropa zvončkov,
ki se od samega spočetja tiščijo drug drugega,
se prepustim.
Ne cela.
Zamrznjeno rano
skrivam v levem prekatu srca.
Črno kri spušča,
noče,
tiho joče.
Slutim, da bi rada šla.
Ne iz gozda,
stran od vase prepričanega sramu.
Ne čisto zaceljena,
kljub vsemu ljubljena.
Wound
When spring arrives,
I too long for new beginnings.
Yet some things --
a silver maple drowned in the gorge,
where icy water still foams as before,
-- remain undone.
A stubborn fern coils around my ankles
as I climb uphill, sparing me from thought.
Here, where the sky is green,
forgiveness is possible.
The indifference of the stream,
my own drifting thoughts,
the cuckoo, calling once more,
though it lays its eggs, generation after generation,
in the nests of other birds.
Touched by a cluster of bluebells,
huddled close since birth,
I surrender.
But not completely.
I hide the frozen wound
in the left chamber of my heart.
The blood flows black.
It resists,
it weeps in silence.
I sense its longing to leave.
But not the forest,
its own, bold shame.
Though not fully healed,
still loved.
(Translated from the Slovenian by Martha Kosir)
