Lives Journal 7

Dani Bedrach







You were asleep

beneath the veins of my eyelids

and the animals were breathing.


You were silent

in the sand of my heart

and the clouds were crying.


You were

in me as never before

and the angels have not punished you.


You were dreaming

of drops on my blade

and the rhymes have not reached you.


You were awaken

with singing water in your eyes,

with washy gravel on your lips,

and with burning fingers

in a tender hollow body.


But the crowing of the morning death

has nevertheless turned up too late

to still disturb you.




Man with a birdlike heart


You have drank dark milk of the stars,

unheared mysterious elder,

and on the damp earthly ground

of unknown shelters

day by day

and night after night

you laid down throbbing veins

of your birdlike heart.


In thousand temples

you have sheltered with pilgrims and mariners,

and together with them

day by day

and night after night

scorned the absence

of never told.


You have dwelled in the stone and wispered to the wind,

imbued with a scent of resin and moss.

You have walked on the living glass,

you, rope dancer and stargazer!


And look:

day by day

and night after night

the inflammable bitches

have greedily licked fire

from your swollen feet.


Is it time for you to stand still

and for the last time scatter your grains

on furrows of those fragrant fields

which you never had time

to completely disappoint them?






With cobwebby morning silver

you gallop your six slaves,

when with a skilled birdlike grasp

I rub the brae of your slender neck.


Today you sing as never before:

old maid of thirty years,

favourite of a dead God,

trembling in silent ecstasy!


Am I the one who disquiets you

o maybe are you

who always anew disturbs me

with silent motionlessnes?


Will we ever get tired

from breathing in that grasp

which carves bright concentric circles

into unspeakableness of our

tormented bodies?




Times of year


Broken up in beauty of awakening spring,

the white cover of snow

gently withdraws

from fingers of daring sun.


Whence rime in the heart, eternal nomad?

Patch your tent

and sing your eager horses

a song of green, restless bridles!


Do not delay in passing away

and do not be from a daring spring way

turned away by sorrowful foreboding

of glowing sandy horizon.


Be the spring water

that in a wounded froth of blood

carries a cold wind of forgiveness!


When your last summer passes by

a teasing autumn will come

that brown coquettish old woman -

and put out your restless fireplace

with white, hollow singing rain.


Tell her then

that with your leathery face

and with free, though scourged heart,

you have loved gentle changing

of times of year.




Palm Sunday


Forgive me my doubt and uncertainty,

my patient love:

they have never told me

that I am worthy of their love.


Forgive me my hard words,

my gentle girl:

with them I surround everything

that does not want to be hurt always anew.


Forgive me my long winter hours,

my playful wanton:

in them is hidden fear

that I might not know how to sing

in your hot summer rain.


Forgive me my abstruse dreams,

my watchful wife:

only in them I can still be

that joyful child

who was never punished

for his own birth.


Let me be what I am,

my great love:

only this way we shall be able

to calmly look together

into the fading sun.






Antropomorphous wound:

dead cobweb of sun

cries in inconceivable geometry.


Patient word

licks with sticky tongue

loose sponges of air.


Four silver birds

have over a parched field

right at midday

drew a sound of viola.




Translated from Slovenian by Matjazh Drev 



Slovenian (bohorichica)

Slovenian (gajica)