Vintage

Sweet days, sticked into the region

listen to a men's conversation in the basement,

where wobbly mills are droning.

 

As in familiar mass things are gathering

around us and again we adapt ourselves

to the words of each other.

 

To tear, to connect the ring,

which generations sprung from the earth,

climbed up as expectations

and puffed up between fingers.

 

Every year someone is missing.

The wasps graze on the remains of the summer

and substance splashes into the same dark barrels.

Every year I forget to collect Wordsworth

who rots in the attic.

 

I am mature and ready for the birth.

 

Squeeze me in the must which will suppress

sulfur and separate dirt from the faith,

so I can resurrect again,

fresh and confronted with winter dreams

less suspicious and less sturdy.

 

So that I can run through the pipes clean

and circle in bright cups among those

who are not afraid of the truth.

Trgatev

Sladki dnevi, zlepljeni v pokrajino,

prisluhnejo pogovoru mož v kleti,

kjer brnijo razmajani mlini.


 

Kakor v znani maši se zbirajo stvari

okoli nas, ko se ponovno privajamo

na besede drugega.


 

Odtrgati, povezati obroč,

ki je generacije vznikal iz zemlje,

se kot pričakovanja vzpenjal

in nabrekal med prste, ki polzijo.


 

Vsako leto nas je manj,

ko se ose pasejo na ostankih poletja

in snov pljuska v iste sode in temo.

Vsako leto pozabim pospraviti

Wordswortha, ki trohni na podstrešju.


 

Zrel sem in pripravljen na rojstvo.


 

Stisni me v mošt, ki ga bo dušilo

žveplo in v njem ločilo umazanijo od vere,

da bom lahko ponovno vstal,

svež in soočen z zimskimi sanjami,

manj nezaupljiv in trmast.


 

Da bom čist tekel skozi pipe

v svetle kozarce in krožil med tistimi,

ki se ne bojijo resnice.