A Simple Sun

by Jure Jakob


A Simple Sun

Children move along the path through the forest,

Birds have ascended into the foliage;

For the first time this week, a persistent wind blows across the road,

Sweeping it.

 

There are two nannies, one in the front and one in the back,

They know the names of some of these birds;

First green tufts of grass are growing from the ground

Through the mess of last year’s leaves.

 

Everyone walks as they wish, but they have to stay together,

The path is steep, so one of them will be the first to go higher,

Though the difference will then be immediately forgotten

And nobody’s restless palm will be visited by a bird.

 

There’s a castle there, they’re heading towards its walls

On which birds perch, birds different

From the ones any of them will ever remember

Sitting in front of a photo.

 

And one of the nannies scalds a girl for putting a stone in her mouth.

When she’s older, somebody will tell her that the mouth

Is soft, and maybe she’ll open it with somebody

As if the stone had melted.

 

But now they’re opening them as if everything was theirs,

And when I can’t see them anymore, birds rush

Down from all around me and peck at the leftover bread

As if the crumbs were truly theirs.

 

But the word wants the world inside it,

And so the world remains there, the child and the bird,

The free little bodies

Beneath a simple sun,

And the birds and the children don’t care.

 

I’m sitting behind the window, in the corner of the kitchen,

Twice locked in and twice immobile:

The birds and the children.

 

I couldn’t hear anything, but I know they both chattered about the same thing:

Ones at the others, about you and me, about yours and mine, the voices

That can’t drift apart.

 

That’s the reason for this poem.

I’ve locked myself in but the light still reaches me

And I want to stay present.

From Abandoned Places, Ljubljana 2010, translated by Jernej Županič

Preprosto sonce

Otroci se premikajo po stezi skozi gozd,

ptice so se dvignile v krošnje;

prvi dan v tednu piha čez cesto vztrajen veter

in jo čisti.

 

Dve varuški sta zraven, ena spredaj, ena zadaj,

oni poznata imena za katero od teh ptic;

s tal, skozi navlako lanskega listja,

poganjajo zeleni šopi prvih trav.

 

Hodijo po svoje, a morajo ostati skupaj,

pot je strma, zato bo eden prišel prvi više,

čeprav bo razlika že čez hip pozabljena

in ne bo nikomur ptica sedla v nemirno dlan.

 

Tam je grad, namenjeni so pod zidove,

na katerih posedajo drugačne ptice

od tistih, ki se jih bo kdo od njih, nekoč,

pred fotografijo, spomnil.

 

In ena od varušk ošteje deklico, ki daje v usta kamen.

Starejši ji bo nekdo povedal, da so usta

mehka in mogoče jih bo s kom odprla,

kot da se je kamen pretopil.

 

 

A zdaj jih odpirajo, kakor da je vse njihovo,

in ko otrok ne vidim več, se ptice zgrnejo

od vsenaokrog dol in zobajo ostanke kruha,

kot da so te drobtine v resnici njihove.

 

A beseda hoče vase svet,

tako da svet ostane tam, otrok in ptica,

prosta majhna telesa

pod preprostim soncem,

in pticam in otrokom to ni mar.

 

Za okensko šipo sedim, v kotu kuhinje,

dvakrat zaklenjen in negiben:

ptice in otroci.

 

Ničesar nisem slišal, a vem, da so oboji čebljali o istem:

eden v drugega, o tebi in o meni, o tvojem in o mojem, glasovi,

ki  ne morejo narazen.

 


Zato je ta pesem.

Zaklenil sem se, a sije tudi sem,

in hočem ostati zraven.

Jure Jakob, iz zbirke Zapuščeni kraji, Ljubljana 2010