Translated by: Jure Novak
No trails.
The dry, glassy sand.
What silence!
Rhythms of the sun.
Of never-finished worlds.
Of vanishings.
Honey on top
the sound in paradise hollow.
No flames, no birds.
In evening’s rain
an apparition’s moan. How quiet
and soft, the breath of guitars.
Eye-lid vibration.
An evening song of streets
empty of children.
Shivering
string; may I pluck you gently
with your accord?
I touch you
to the same music’s blossom,
the same world’s sway.
Taut skin
touched by air. A palm
ringing eternity.
The fan of harp-strings.
A waterfall of erect forces, a blinding
passion of calm.
A modulation
of your moves. I get up,
the music goes silent.