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Uroš Zupan, from Six Slovenian Poets

Nokturno

Noč je. Otoki zmrzujejo na nebu.
Položeni so vsi računi. Mrtvi pripadajo
samo mrtvim, živi samo živim.
Nobena druga ura ne obstaja
razen te, v kateri nas je dohitela
utrujenost. Zložili smo oblačila
in si z obrazov izmili pretekli čas.
Naše želje, ki nikoli niso pomenile
varnih zavetišč, so se izgubile med
zvezdami. Odpravljamo se.

Če bo sreča mila, bo to potovanje
potekalo v tišini, brez nas. Sapa,
izdihana iz pljuč, se bo nakopičila
pod stropi kot oblaki. Molk,
ki se mu je uspelo izmuzniti iz
zamolčanih misli, bo našel svoje
mesto, bo prenehal vznemirjati.

Zjutraj nas bo svet, na neviden znak,
po nikomur znanem zaporedju in urah,
še enkrat nevede povabil v svoj objem.
Iz smeri podzemske reke se bodo
v posamičnih skupinah, kot razbita
kolona romarjev, ki je v sanjah dosegla
svoj cilj, začela vračati izgubljena telesa.
In okna, naši edini mostovi do
resničnosti, bodo v prvi svetlobi
zažarela kot prevara, kot vrata v nebo.

Nocturne

Night. Islands are freezing in the sky.
All accounts are settled. The dead belong only to the dead. The living to the living.
No other hour exists
but this, in which we've been
meshed in tiredness. We've folded our clothes
and washed the past from our faces.
Our desires, which had never included
safe havens, were lost amid
stars, as we set off.

If fortune smiles, this journey will take place
in silence, without us. Breaths
exhaled from our lungs will pile up
like steam beneath the ceiling. The quiet that
managed to elude our hidden thoughts will find
its place and cease to disturb.

In the morning, with an invisible
sign, in a time and sequence known to no-one,
the world will once more unwittingly invite us into its
embrace. From the direction of an underground river,
like a broken chain of pilgrims that will reach
its goal only in dreams, lost bodies will start
to come back in separated groups.
And at first light,
windows, our only bridge to reality,
will flare up as an illusion, a doorway to heaven.