I write this in the ninth year of the endless war: it is the XXVII February & third
consecutive day without sun.
This is what sinks in me: a millstone done with grinding
Inherited, self-annihilating traits of the failed tongue. The Saker, the Lanner &
the Barbary. Grouped in threes with obsolete, feminine endings. There is no
assuagement left in them
In me, there is assuagement. From nightfall’s rare descending angel, the hawk that
does not miss but identifies
& makes off with the children of whomsoever it pleases
But I shall be as a shield to you & keep the shadow from off your back
Tole pišem v devetem letu nenehne vojne: je XXVII februar & tretji zaporedni dan
brez sonca.
Tole tone v meni: mlinski kamen, ki ne melje več
Podedovane, samouničevalne poteze spodletelega jezika. Sokol morilec, južni &
puščavski sokol. Po trije skupaj,
z zastarelimi, ženstvenimi zaključki. Nobenega olajšanja nimajo več
V meni je, olajšanje. Zaradi redkega angela, ki se spušča, ko se stemni, sokola, ki ne
zgreši, ampak prepozna otroke
& pobegne s tistimi, ki si jih sam izbere
A zate bom kot ščit & bom odganjal senco izza tvojega hrbta
Iz angleščine prevedla Ana Pepelnik