W. Martin, Ana Pepelnik
angleščina
Stari ljudje umirajo mlajši
Kaj tebi pomeni to, kar meni pomeni
zrak, ki ga diham, in/ali voda, ki jo pijem,
in/ali jezik, ki ga govorim, in tako naprej?
Tako sem se sprehajal skozi gozd, kjer sta poganjala
praprot in borovničevo grmičje, tam si se
sprehajal tudi ti, nekoč, mogoče si opazoval
iste zareze na deblih zasek, mah v pravi smeri.
Vsakomur, ki sem ga srečal, sem predlagal,
naj govori moj jezik; pa jih v resnici ni bilo veliko,
na strtih pločnikih sem samo oplazil nekaj vej.
Bil sem lahek in tenak, skoraj list, skoraj razvodenelo
čustvo, skoraj razsuta prašnica,
drugačna narava. Brez izpostavljenega smisla,
brez svarila. Čuden tekst na tvojem
čelu, milni mehurčki nasmehov z ustnic,
podrti kozolci in kašče, polne žonglerskih rekvizitov,
tvoja spretnost. V tem zmedenem prometu
je bolje ostati mlad, v očeh drugih
in v svojem začaranem gozdu. Z očmi drugih,
v drugačni naravi, ki ti včasih pusti zraven,
potem pa steče v drugo smer, kjer se odločiš za teh par besed
v tihi sobi, ki je tiha, dokler ne spregovorijo
in/ali ne zaigrajo na izparelo violino,
trzaje grenkih strun.
Iz: Nova okna
Ljubljana: Lud Literatura, 2005
Avdio produkcija: 2008 Literaturwerkstatt Berlin
Old People May Die Younger
Does it mean for you what it means for me,
this air I breathe and/or water I drink
and/or language I speak and so on?
I walked through the forest, saw fern and blossoming
blueberries, the same forest you once
walked through, too, probably noticing these
notched logged trunks, moss in the right direction.
Try to speak my language was my suggestion
to everyone I met. Truth is, they weren’t many;
on broken pavements I only touched a few branches.
I was light and thin, practically a leaf, feeling practically
watered down, a practically messed-up puff ball,
a different nature. Without an expounded meaning,
without warning. Weird content on your
forehead, soap-bubble smiles on lips,
ramshackle hayracks and granaries full of juggling equipment,
your trade. In this puzzled traffic it’s better
to stay young, in other people’s eyes and in your enchanted
forest. With other people’s eyes, in a different nature
that sometimes lets you get close, but then runs
in the opposite direction, where you choose these words
in a quiet room, quiet until they’re spoken
and/or played on an evaporated violin,
the twitching of bitter strings.