The triple bridge. The cylinder block of the pineal eye
As if you wanted to cross, split in three,
the gentle river Ljubljanica,
to bring to bay at the end of the bridge
the scaly creature of the plaza
that spins there, on the spot,
like a circular saw.
Mother, tearful, cradling a bag of vegetables.
Perhaps she would gather up, with her bare hands,
the flesh grated from your bones.
The closed, the pineal eye.
Mother, she would know how the tear rounded itself within you,
curled up like a wild animal,
according to the law of the smallest surface
over which pain can spread.
How it spun there, on the spot, darkened, the tear,
like a drill, the eddy of blood
with which you warmed the cathedral steps,
the walls, the cadence of the shots;
in which she, mother, lengthily washes,
like for a lost son, your ripped-out fingernails,
Behind is the triple bridge:
along which you leave, if you leave,
along which you come, if you come,
along which you go.
The closed, the pineal eye. The cylinder block.
Translated by Alistair Ian Blyth