Vidim le oranžne kroge,
ki se dramijo nad vhodom v tempelj
naših dni.
Prvič,
ne moremo nikamor drugam
in drugič, zvrstili smo se
za zaščitno masko
slabotnega čudenja -
starodavna meglica se dviguje
nad dnevom, ki se naslednjim odkupuje
s tem, da jih spreminja
v notranjost prelomljenih krogov,
kjer gradnja oranžnih
roti za pričetek -
kjer se okruški nalomljenih zob drobijo v prah
in drgnejo ob vzorec zunanjih robov,
robov, ki oponašajo trepetavo Božje oko,
oko boga, ki prosi "Ne, ne ... ne med spanjem ..."
in pošlje valčke po vodovju, ki ga je sam ustvaril -
valčke, ki prerastejo v valove
in pogoltnejo vasice,
v katerih izdelujejo posodo.
Vendar ni prav nič tragično,
če se ranim v kotiček ustnic
in se kri, ki kaplja na papir,
suši v oranžne kroge,
ki preprečujejo, da bi obrnil stran.
iz angleščine prevedel Igor Divjak
Now all I see are orange circles
arousing themselves against a high pylon
of days.
In the first place
we have no place else to go,
and in the second, we've aligned ourselves
behind the protective malaise
of our amazement—
an old haze rising
on a day that makes amends
by making every day that follows
the inside of all the broken circles,
where construction on the orange ones
must beg to begin—
where shards from a chipped tooth are ground into powder
and rubbed with design along the outside rims,
rims that mimic the trembling eyelid of God,
a god that pleads "No, no . . . not in my sleep . . ."
then sends ripples across the waters of his own device—
ripples turn into waves
consuming the villages
where bowls get made.
Though it's no catastrophe
when I cut my lip on the edge,
when drops of blood splatter the page
drying in orange circles
that keep the page from turning.