Lives Journal 3

Milena Merlak




A Valley's Regret


I'm a valley

dimly sunk in itself.


My rivers don't have the strength

to dig beds for themselves

and find the shortest way to the sea;

their hushed, languid waters

can only wash dust from the roads

and struggle to surmount stones.


I'd like to look up and reflect

the sky's blue in my eyes

and have deep roots

that caress the tired earth;

I'd like to see myself

brightened by the sun.


I'm a valley,

one of many

dimly sunk in itself.





The Mountain


The mountain doesn't like to be enveloped by haze,

 it doesn't like brooks with tamed torrents,

 it doesn't like the wounded embrace of the spruce trees

that hold back landslides.

The mountain doesn't like anything.


With the icy hunger

of its powerful, deified body, it absorbs everything,

torments everything with the mute laughter

of its concealed cracks and chasms.


The mountain fears nothing,

not even death.


Its heart is a smooth rock

from which no edelweiss can be plucked.




Translated from Slovenian by Herbert Kuhner




Slovenian (gajica)

Slovenian (bohorichica)