Lives Journal 3

Lev Detela




Eulogy to the Moon



Red moons light our way in the evening. 

They are often made of pure silver

but are always uncanny and cold

in their inexplicable clarity.


How marvelous

this bizarre masterpiece devoid of passion

seems to us,

this cold construction

composed of ore.


Everything dies,

but the moon survives.

When we are long gone

the earth will break into thirty-five moons,

and there'll be no more fire.





Thoughts at Night



The wall-clock has stopped in the dusk.

The pendulum has become detached.

The moon is above the dark continent.

Blood-covered cranes are flying.

Glass looks back at us with cracked eyes.

The forests are covered with metal cobwebs.

The world is void and vague.

The nights are armed with contaminated moons.

The days are as mad as rabid dogs. 

Everyone sleeps under black sheets.

The wheels of life race until they break. 

Time is dead but doesn't stop.

The sword is the handwriting on all borders. 

This is a city out of a book,

a city with no fountains or flowers,

a city in which the clocks have stopped,

a city over which blood-covered cranes fly.





Translated from Slovenian by Herbert Kuhner




Slovenian (gajica)

Slovenian (bohorichica)