Remember your name, you, the black
The evening was coming over
the steppe, but the sun has not set. It was staying
in the zenith all the time, from morning. Ghor
afoot has left the tents. Even
his horse knew where he was intended.
Therefore, no one asked him.
How he was marching on! He was his own circle.
Wholeness. The bull, just below the navel. Purple
ball of the sun. His own cruel myth.
IN THE DESERT
Far in the desert he stopped. The sword,
a shining blade, with both
his hands he reserved over the level,
tip down. It was the autumn,
wind slamed from behind he,
and flapped his ragged and
goat smelly cloak.
His forehead was burning as
the sun, unknown metal. When
he struck, the earth whelped the blood.
REMEMBER YOUR NAME
You remember your name, you, hard
contour. It was dawning over
steppe, but the sun did not occur. It was staying
in the zenith all the time, all night. Ghor
was coming afoot to the tents. Even
his horse knew that he was coming.
Therefore, no one questioned anything.
How he was limping on! He was his own circle.
Splited. Blood, just below the navel. Ball of the sun,
in the sky. He will drink from the earth again.
Translated from Slovenian by author