kaj te zasleduje?
Poljubljam tvoje zlate lase,
poljubljam tvojo dušo, tako veselo -
moja odkritosrčna sfinga,
moje brezbrižno
ubogo dekle.
kaj te zasleduje?
Iz istega ila si zgnetena,
in isto sonce
je polagoma teklo vate.
Isti veter
te je premetaval
vzdolž ceste.
molekularna usoda za pokorne
Na veliko napredujemo.
Iskano smo
kot radodarni domačini.
Za prgišče biserov
skupaj poskakujemo,
prodajamo stare idole
Grebemo za zlatim peskom,
čistimo modre džungle,
slačimo stare kožuhe.
Naše roke ločeno dihajo.
Prekršili smo vse tabuje
in smo še vedno živi!
Kaj nas zasleduje?
Ob cesti so pustili
kupe
zarjavelih konzerv,
rol celofana,
praznih steklenic,
zavrženih amuletov,
zmečkanih časopisov
in mnogih koristnih reči.
Hodimo naprej
in naprej in naprej
Naše noge ločeno dihajo.
* * *
Preko vijoličnih potokov hodimo,
po mostovih, čvrsto se raztezajočih,
vzdolž asfaltnih rek,
klicu
lokomotive naproti.
Spimo pod orjaškimi črkami,
jemo v taktu
in ljubimo spotoma.
kaj nas zasleduje?
Kadar koli se ozreš nazaj,
se gromko zakrohočeš:
kako
prekleto
smešno,
da v muzeju visi
omršavel orlovski nos totema.
* * *
Poljubljam tvoje zlate lase,
poljubljam tvojo dušo, tako veselo.
Ti o ničemer ne dvomiš, draga.
Ti si le trudna.
Vzel bi te s seboj,
a nič več nisem
tisti silni bojevnik,
ki si je na pleča naložil
grehe svojega plemena
in se zoperstavljal nevarnostim
pretkano nasmejan.
Malo potrpi,
moja nadležna potepinka.
Tam, kamor gremo, pravijo,
vsakdo najde svoj počitek.
Pred vsemi se bodo razprostirala
brezmejna lovišča.
Tam vsakdo dobi
razmajano kolibo, pisano srajco,
radio in sod viskija.
Tam
(in tega ti ni treba verjeti)
se še psi
do sitega nažrejo.
naše glave ločeno dihajo.
* * *
In tako dolgo že hodimo.
Želim si,
da bi se lahko kdo vrnil od tam,
da nam pove, kaj je tam videl.
kdo se vrne od tam?
Pravijo, da mnogi poglavarji
sinove iz svojih plemen vodijo
v tisto smer.
kdo se vrne od tam?
Sivoglavi,
starčki hodijo ob naši strani
in priganjajo svoje vnuke.
kdo se vrne od tam?
Kakor znamenja pomembnega,
a nerazvozljivega jezika,
vzdolž ceste rastejo gomile.
what's following you?
I kiss your golden hair,
I kiss your soul so serene -
my artless sphynx,
my carefree
wretched girl.
what's following you?
You're puddled of the same clay,
and the same sun
ran bit by bit into you
The same wind
tossed you
along the road.
a molecular fate for the meek
We advance en masse.
We're sought after
like generous natives.
For a handful of beads
we leap about together,
we sell the old idols.
We scrape up gold sand,
we clear wise jungles,
we take off the old furs.
our hands breath separetely.
We broke all taboos
and we're still alive!
what's following us?
By the road they've left
heaps
of rusty cans,
celophane rolls,
empty bottles,
discarded amulets,
crumpled newspapers
and many useful objects.
We walk on
and on and on
our feet breathe separetely.
* * *
Across violet brooks we walk,
along bridges stretched tight,
along asphalt rivers,
to the call
of the iron horse.
We sleep under huge letters,
we eat to the rhythm,
and love on the way.
what's following us?
Whenever one looks back
he roars with laughter:
how
damned
funny
that there hangs in the museum
the thinned out break of the totem.
* * *
I kiss your golden hair,
I kiss your soul so serene.
You have no doubts, darling.
You've only weariness.
I would have carried you along
but I'm not
the strong warrior I was
who took upon his back
the sins of his tribe
and met all threats
with a wry grin.
Have a little patience,
my wary waif.
Where we go, they say,
there's rest for all.
For everyone there'll be
immense hunting grounds.
There, everyone is given
a ramshackle hut, a motley shirt,
a radio and a cask of whiskey.
There,
(and you may not believe it)
even the dogs
eat their fill.
our heads breathe separately
* * *
And we've been walking for so long.
I wish
someone could return from there
to tell us what he saw.
who returns from there?
They say so many chieftains
lead the sons of their tribe
in that direction.
who returns from there?
With grey heads
old people walk beside us
and push their grandchildren.
who returns from there?
Like signs of an important
but obscure language,
mounds rise along the road.