“Ljubezen moja, bojim se tišine tvojih dlani.”
Mahmoud Darwish
Gozd se je, srce moje, čez noč shladil
in vsak list drhti v zavedanju, da bo gotovo odpadel,
drhti v rumeni, javorjevo rdeči in slezasti barvi, umirajoči cinober
se spominja poletja. Zdaj so mi ob sprehajanju vzdolž reke
dopuščeni le najnežnejši pritiski stopal, moje zibajoče se
telo v nabrušenem vetru išče ravnotežje. Moral sem te pustiti
na odsotnem bregu, topel cvet, ugnezden sredi trstja,
begajoče, mavrično oko. Kako se razideva,
ve samo jutro, in kar sva že izrekla, rosa.
Jutri, vedno znova jutri bova našla jezik, v katerem
se bova spominjala svojih tišin, ali si izposodila besede iz
nočnega besednjaka vzdihljajev. Bridkost te bo naučila novih imen
in jaz bom odgovarjal, votel, z udarci bobnov in odmevi,
s koraki in nalahno zaprtimi vrati, nikoli pogledujoč
k tebi, nikoli nazaj. Zdaj, preden pride spanec, spravljam
te besede v njegovo skrinjo. Pred pokopom in krvjo.
Prevod: Andrej Hočevar
"My love, I fear the silence of your hands."
Mahmoud Darwish
Overnight, my heart, the forest has grown cold
and every leaf shivers with the sure knowledge of its fall,
shivers yellow and maple-red and mauve, Summer remembered
in vermillion dying. When I walk the river now
it bears merely the lightest press of feet, my body swaying
to keep balance in the whetted breeze. I had to leave you
on the absent shore, a warm bloom nesting in the reeds,
an unfixed, iridescent eye. How we part
only the morning knows, and what we said already dew.
Tomorrow after tomorrow we will find the tongue to
remember our silences, or borrow words from the night's
vocabulary of sighs. Grief will teach you new names
and I will answer, hollow, in drumbeats and echoes,
in footsteps and softly closed doors, never looking
at you, never back. I place these words now in the vault
of sleep before it comes. Before the burial and the blood.
