Judith’s monoloque in the evening darkness
Thunder accompanies you to the scent of raw
not yet purified wool, you continue on your own,
lines on your hands do not point out the direction
and you sing, you try to sing in a language,
which has been born too soon,
but yet again it is already eroding,
you communicate with the movements,
with trambling of your buttocks, learned from the men.
Asyria is on the North.
You need only one thread to return.
Is this what people call measuring time?
Being chosen nation always feels like the knife in my back,
it comes when I respond without any sparks,
its aromatic oils
in large quantities kill.
after comes the moment when the thread vanishes
and the light disappears.
The voyage offers you juicy orange
in its stretched arm
and in the other hand wide saltpans of fear.
Just a little bit, just this lifetime.
voices started becoming wornout, fading,
the same as the left and the right side.
There was a behest which did not lead anywhere.
There was that much.
Trick – men are unaware of:
circling with the womb – not with the hips.
There was language, premature,
it sank into a page of Book
and sliped on the slope of the text
into loneliness and fear.
It is too late to back away.
You have to learn a huge number of codes
to be able to seduce –
the direction and the length of looks you give,
tones of voices, smells of armpits, the weight of movements.
The game that goes to your heart.
Holding of Holofern’s head tires me,
and because we are talking about it:
there was no fulfilment.
Bluff, but the person in not always worth it,
and is always underestimated.
© translated by Alenka Sunčič Zanut