Concierto de Aranjuez

by Veronika Dintinjana


Concierto de Aranjuez

It was summer, wrapped in a wintry coat of rain.

It was an autumn of ripe figs and blue draught.

 

White stones guarded the sleeping wells,

brambles, sweet and black, hid in the niches

of dry leaves covered with a thin layer of dust and salt,

bare slopes were overgrown with silver

sage, olive trees kept to the westerly side

and the rocks, exposed to incessant assaults of gales, to the easterly

unliving white moon-like surface, sharp-edged,

unsheltered from the sun.

 

In noon heat, time flows

only through the veins of shadows sated with the immobility

of living creatures and of air, earth and sun. Nothing

can change, the senses were telling me,

but I was not swayed.

 

Feeling that I remember

the present while it lasts, that I am clay,

paper, the medium of change,

the messenger and the message. My DNA,

memory cells in the brain,

connections between them. A message

that self-destructs when listened

to the end.

 

Grass snakes on hot stones are not dangerous.

Fear is dangerous, and the imprudent

haste of retreat. And too much sun.

 

If I do not return, the olive trees and grasses,

bramble, sage and snakes will

remain the same, unchanged.

 

If I return, they will also be the same,

only I shall not be and between us there will be

recollections of tastes and smells unexpressed in words.

Every successful recognition will be

cause for new happiness. This has not changed,

at least this has not changed, at the core

it remains the same, for I recognize these leaves,

I recognize the strong fragrance of herbs,

for the sea is still salty and the stone still

white and rough.

 

Not the same, equal. And if not,

at least the trace of change is

equal, testimony that time was

here, too, that it had stood still among us

and made a break in its script —

 

I lay down on the earth, it was cold,

calm, still, I shut my eyes and waited

to take in her wisdom, to stop

when it was still time, to let go. I shut my eyes,

brought down the volume of my thoughts. Only my ears

remained grounded. Sounds of a vacant field

and my breathing. Then, a sudden sound,

like wind shifting leaves in the trees,

as if the canopies were full and it was summer again.

I looked. Above me, a flock of migrating birds.

I heard the movement of their wings in flight.

The unexpected sound of departure and changes

bared me. I rose

slowly, the palms of their wings giving me

to see, suddenly, by my side, a passage.

Translated by the author and E. Underhill

Concierto de Aranjuez

Bilo je poletje, zavito v zimski plašč dežja.

Bila je jesen zrelih fig in modre suše.

 

Beli kamni so varovali speče vodnjake,

črne in sladke so se robidnice skrile v niše

suhih listov, prekritih s tanko plastjo prahu in soli,

gola pobočja so prerasli srebrni grmi 

žajblja, oljke so imele zahodno stran

in skale pod stalnim pritiskom burje vzhodno,

neživo, belo površino meseca, ostrih robov

brez zaklona pred soncem.

 

V opoldanski vročini teče čas

samo še po žilah senc, nasičen z negibnostjo

živih bitij in zraka, zemlje in sonca. Nič

se ne more spremeniti, so govorili čuti,

a nisem verjela.

 

Z občutkom, da se spominjam

sedanjosti, ko še traja, da sem kakor glina,

kakor papir, nosilec sprememb,

sel in sporočilo hkrati. Moja DNK,

spominske celice v možganih,

povezave med njimi. Sporočilo,

ki se samouniči, ko ga poslušaš

do konca.

 

Goži na vročih kamnih niso nevarni.

Nevaren je samo strah, neprevidna

naglica umika. In preveč sonca.

 

Če se ne vrnem, bodo oljke in trave,

robidnice, žajbljevi grmi in kače

enake, nespremenjene.

 

Če se vrnem, bodo tudi enake,

samo jaz ne bom in med nami bodo

neubesedeni spomini okusov in vonjev.

Vsako uspešno prepoznavanje bo

vzrok za novo srečo. Ni se spremenilo,

vsaj to se ni spremenilo, v svojem bistvu je

ostalo enako, ker prepoznam te liste,

ker prepoznam močan vonj zelišč,

ker je morje še slano in kamen

bel in grob.

 

Ne isto, enako. In če ni,

je enaka vsaj sled

sprememb, zapis, da je bil čas

tudi tukaj, da se je ustavil med nami

in napravil presledek v svoji pisavi.

 

Legla sem na zemljo, bila je mrzla,

mirna, negibna, zaprla sem oči in čakala,

da se nalezem njene modrosti, nehati,

ko je čas, prepustiti se. Zaprla sem oči.

Utišala misli. Samo ušesa

so ostala prizemljena. Zvoki praznega polja

in moje dihanje. Nato nenaden zvok,

kakor bi veter premaknil liste v krošnjah,

kakor da so krošnje polne in je spet poletje.

Odprla sem oči. Nad mano jata ptic selivk,

slišala sem gibe kril v letu.

Nepričakovani zvok odhoda in sprememb

me je razgalil. Vstala sem

počasi, kakor bi mi dlani kril dale

videti, ob meni, nenadoma, prehod.

Veronika Dintinjana