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Peter Semolic, from Six Slovenian Poets

Verzi

Celodnevni potep po mestu, druženje z golobi.
Na plavem nebu se vse bolj čipkata črti reaktivcev.
V praznini računalniškega ekrana se vrti
barvast cvet — roža čudotvorna.
še zmerom pišem na roko, v star blok, katerega
koledar me vodi v minulo stoletje.
Nekega dne — upam, da to ne bo tako kmalu —
mi bo kdo rekel, da sem človek prejšnjega stoletja,
pesnik minulega časa.
Rahel drget: sledi avionov sta dokončno izginili.
S Primorskega je prišla burja in maje staro jablano.
Cvetje je že skoraj minilo, plodov še dolgo ne bo.
Kaj počnejo golobi? Se odpravljajo spat?
Prečrtam neustrezen verz in napišem novega:
temna silhueta Krima je bila leta in leta moj horizont.
Zdaj nad njo plava oblak, škrlaten od zahajajočega sonca.
Večerna svetloba pada skoz okno, pada na te verze
in jih mehča.
Lavrica, 3. maj 2000

Lines

A whole day's ramble around town, socializing with the pigeons.
Up in the blue sky two contrails unlace.
In the emptiness of the computer screen
a multi-coloured blossom spins — blossom of miracles.
I am still writing by hand, in an old notebook whose
calendar takes me back to the last century.
One day — I hope not too soon —
somebody will tell me that I am a man of the last century,
a poet of the past.
A slight tremble: the aeroplanes' trails have completely vanished.
From Primorska the bora has come and shakes the old apple tree.
The blossoming is almost over, the fruit won't come for a while yet.
What are the pigeons doing? Are they going to bed?
I cross out a badly written line and write a new one:
the dark silhouette of Mt. Krim was my horizon for years and years.
Now a cloud swims above it, scarlet from the setting sun.
The evening light falls through the window, it falls on these lines
and softens them.
Lavrica, 3 May 2000