I’ll soon turn forty, I’m still lying to myself and others.
Telling jokes about life, my favourite being the one about the mountain.
When you’re about thirty, it seems that you’re ascending,
but then, suddenly at the peak, horrified, you look down,
wipe your forehead, and start to descend. I’m descending.
I’m not always certain if it’s good or bad.
but I’ve noticed that it doesn’t mind, only it knows
that I’ve seen it only from one side, and I’ll never reach the peak.
The most it can offer me is an illusion I can live with.
The mountain is my protector, the only convincing lie.
Someday, when I won’t see it anymore, I won’t notice
it’s too late. So I don’t have to fear right now. It’s 8 a.m.,
Jože woke up long ago and went out searching for the perfect light.
It’s time I go to the other side, if I don’t want to become an old
liar, like so many others in this town.
I’m sorry I’m late. But does it really matter?