Above the herd of white cities and above
the fires that frame them, a scarlet kite
appears for a moment, guided by a child’s hand.
Come. Just follow me. It isn’t far to where
you will have a view of ripened fruit
as it remains, lying in wet grass:
the order must have been fulfilled.
Unbearable, yet necessary, like the horizon
that dams the light and softens
the defeat of human shadow.
You too will lie, it’s your habit.
Here you will count your handshakes
with the neighbors, errors in the language
and a horror of runaway troops, the biography
of castle walls, of streets and public squares,
saliva, heartbeat, sinew, semen,
some murals and portraits, forgettable
decrees. Come. Follow me. Here you will
shiver like I shiver, in labor and in love:
it is easy to live without memory, but not
without the legacy of what runs in the veins.
For now I pray apart, but I don’t want
to kneel in private forever—come,
follow me, since no one would dare
to go there alone, in stammering
and drizzle, even for a little while,
evaporating out of the visible world.
Translated by: Aleš Debeljak & Andrew Zawacki