Windless

Low clouds retain watercolor,

spilled on the procession of streets, metal

and city models on the screens,

which flashing new names alternately

and turn over animal blood in us.


 

The icy granite under the feet

and the air around the heads –

I am the bond among the pines –

is built out of noise that no generation

is able to bring the over the horizon.


 

The weather is calmer than rumors,

more flexible than womenswear,

which steam on the squares.

We sit and fight with mirrors

and statues carved out the air.


 

When the planes of unrest flap,

solutions snap known forms -

once they discover olive complexion,

secondly Ceres gesture.


 

When we fumble for the windows

of the Mediterranean and cool in halls,

sea vegetation falls without resistance.

But when my forehead wrinkles,

I see people asking on the staircases:

How to wake up the wind,

buried in the mountain, the wind,

that will move us away

from the wrong meridian?

Brezvetrje

Nizki oblaki pridržujejo akvarel,

razlit na procesijo ulic, pločevine

in modelov mest, ki na ekranih

izmenično utripajo nova imena,

v nas prelistavajo živalsko kri.


 

Pod stopali leden granit,

in zrak okoli glav – jaz sem vez

med pinijami – je sezidan iz hrupa,

ki ga nobena generacija

ne zmore ponesti čez obzorje.


 

Vreme je mirnejše od govorice,

prožnejše od ženskih oblačil,

ki puhtijo na odprtih trgih.

Sedimo in se borimo z zrcali,

kipi, izklesanimi iz zraka.


 

Ko zanihajo ploskve nemira,

rešitve tlesknejo znane oblike –

enkrat odkrijejo olivno polt,

drugič Cererino kretnjo.


 

Ko tipamo okna Sredozemlja

in se hladimo v dvoranah,

vodno rastlinje pade brez upora.

A ko se čelo naguba, na stopniščih

vidim one, ki niso nehali spraševati:

Kdaj bomo zbudili veter,

zakopan v gori, veter,

ki nas bo premaknil z meridijana,

kamor smo zašli?