19.

I watch a cloud
freely shape the day.
Trapped in the dharma of it
trying for what no other had ever done.
Rains drive exactly to where
it is all already wet.
Tired, teared-out and empty I write.
Spirit’s angry.
I don’t have the words
if I don’t think of them on the spot.
What should I do with the loneliness of my brothers?
With the slovenliness of their strongholds?
They no longer paint storks.
They care as much about the flowering bindweed as this paradise.

19.

19.

Opazujem oblak,
ki svobodno oblikuje dan.
V posledice ujet
poskuša, kar še ni noben pred njim.
Deževje zapelje natančno tja,
kjer je že vse mokro.
Utrujena, izjokana in prazna pišem.
Duh je hud.
Nimam stavka,
če se ga v hipu ne domislim.
Kaj naj z osamljenostjo svojih bratov?
Zanemarjenostjo njihovih trdnjav?
Nič več ne slikajo žerjavov.
Cvetoči slak jih briga kot tisti paradiž.