37.

  

Cheeky, punchy bullfinches bounce on branches           
and worries eat up the most beautiful blossom.
Different poems grow
if I watch the garden every day.
Very different.
I measure voices against their echo, governments too.
I don’t count sheep, I’m not looking for a shepherd.
The sun is melting the cathedral’s steeple.
The sky booms. Corridors shudder
in the heat of the day. My fingers glue together.
And truth sings, tilted towards the east, it sings.

37.

37.

Nabiti, kunštni kalini se guncajo,
skrbi pa jejo najlepše cvete.
Drugačne pesmi zrastejo,
če vsak dan gledam vrt.
Zelo drugačne.
Glasove merim z odmevom, vladavine tudi.
Zato ne štejem ovac in ne iščem pastirja.
Stolnici sonce raztaplja zvonik.
Nebo doni. Hodniki v vročem zraku
trepetajo. Prsti so se mi zlepili.
Resnica pa poje, nagnjena na vzhod, poje.