Night in the City

by Robert Simonišek


Night in the City

Too young to carry

everything old,

too old to reach the morning,

she slowly pours in like the desert sand.

Silently fulls sections of streets and shorelines,

lays her forehead to the treetops.


 

When I walk the traffic slows down,

the doors of orchards and gardens open,

and language becomes audible,

without any controlled gestures,

without battles of bodies and minds with time.


 

I can almost see

how the moon craters alight

how mirrors lose overview over happenings

when things freeze and become manageable

as museum objects,

because the night came just to display

she doesn't have any intention to sell or take away.


 

The one who stopped me saw how it broke

through the barracks' windows

and concealed a hand in the corner of the depot.


 

I still continue like those who hope

that the night lives up to the expectations

and returns the possibility of arrival

into non-existent place.


 

If I stop, its edges ignite

its fingers write on the facades,

filling up with darkness by all sides

becoming denser and denser

and palpable as a textile,

when the pack of wolves hurl on the balconies and roar,

so she becomes humble and speechless as a barefoot woman

who hung a white robe on the chair.


 

I don' t do much,

I know that the night's knowledge is above mine

and the moon is too young to carry the centuries,

still too old to reach the morning,

I only proceed as a witness of this beauty.

Noč v mestu

Premlada, da bi nosila

vse, kar je staro,

prestara, da bi dosegla jutro,

se vsipa počasi kot puščavski pesek.

Neslišno polni predele ulic in obrežij,

svoje čelo polaga h krošnjam.


 

Ko hodim, se promet umirja,

odpirajo se vrata sadovnjakov in vrtov,

da govorica postaja razločnejša,

brez nadzorovanih kretenj,

brez bitk teles in razuma z minutami.

In skoraj lahko vidim,

kako izstopijo kraterji na luni,

kako zrcala izgubijo pregled nad dogajanjem,

ko stvari zmrznejo in postanejo

obvladljive kot muzejski predmeti,

kajti ona je prišla samo zato, da razstavlja,

nobenega namena nima,

da bi kaj prodala ali nam odvzela.


 

Nekdo, ki me ustavi, jo je videl,

kako je vdrla skozi okna vojašnice

in v kotu skladišča zakrila neko roko.

Še vedno hodim kot tisti, ki mislijo,

da noč izpolni pričakovanja,

vrača možnosti prispetja v kraj,

ki ga ni.


 

In če se ustavim, se njeni robovi vžgejo

v prste, ki pišejo po fasadah,

ki jih z vseh strani zasipava tema,

da postaja vedno bolj gosta

in otipljiva kot tkanina,

ko se na balkone zažene trop volkov in zatuli vanjo,

da postane pohlevna in nema kot bosa ženska,

ki je odložila belo haljo na stol.


 

Nič drugega ne počnem, kot hodim,

ker vem, da vem premalo,

ker je premlada, da bi nosila vse, kar je staro,

prestara, da bi dosegla jutro,

zato nadaljujem kot priča te lepote.