Nikoli nisi nic rekel
in jaz nisem nic slišal,
vendar je jasno:
resnicnost moje pesmi
vstaja iz
polmraka tvojega
molka.
Tam notri sveti mera
za globoko uresnicenost,
za sprašujoce poglede izpod obrvi,
za šum gozdov na strmem crno zelenem pobocju
za divje višine, zavite v meglo.
In še naprej, kot krik ptica,
ki se požene iz vlažne sence na sonce,
na brege med grozdje in z zlato težo
jeseni sede v vino.
Iz tebe raste spomin na tirolske skomine po Mediteranu,
na žilavo, zeleno okovje na piramidah rdecega granita
nad Boznom (Bolzanom).
Ali na dolge, vlažne noci,
iz katerih so se širile sanje globoko v tkivo
drugacne resnicnosti,
noci, iz katerih sem se zbujal prestrašen,
mrk in molcec,
iz starodavnih stanj,
ne da bi znal dobro povedati, kaj mislim,
jecljajoc in moker od živega hlipanja duše.

Kasneje pa, skoraj neopazno, dol po
dolinah s temno zelenimi boki
ostrih, od ledu in sonca razrezanih skal.
Ti si mogoce vse to vedel,
o verigi ocetov in sinov in kako se prepišejo
nakopicene izkušnje iz ene duše v drugo.
Ampak ne govoriva samo o osebnih zgodbah.
Ob reki navzgor po dolini so pljuskali valovi
iz širokega sveta, se zavrtincili okoli
celicnih jeder in jih zaznamovali.
Svet nima središca.
Zamišljeni prednik je dvignil glavo, prisluhnil
izzivu, na izviru potoka postavil kapelo za pušcavnika
in v grapo vzidal znamenje,
zaradi katerega so ljudje zaceli prihajati od dalec,
ker so iskali odgovor...

Zgodovina je poplavljala dolino kot plima,
v vsaki generaciji izbrala sinove ali hcere
in jim vtisnila neizbrisni pecat.
Vse nas je zaznamovala,
z osredotocenimi mislimi smo pisali,
cesar nismo vedno razumeli.
Za nami so ostali grobovi, posuti s kremencevim peskom,
na katerem zdaj pobliskava razbito sonce.
Negibni kot skobec na veji.
V pogledu že umrlih sta zoreli tudi
najini samozavest in moc.
Kot jeleni v polmraku z roba gozda, se ta prisotnost,
ta mera, neopazno seli cez molk,
v nevidnih prebliskih, ki drugace delujejo
in potujejo kot vsakdanje misli.
In ne samo midva, ampak vsak zadrhti, ce ga prebodejo ti
razgledi, z duhom, ki zaveje po dolini,
razigran od cvetov sadnega drevja,
barocno razkošen kot grajska vprega iz Štatenberga,
ki se je ustavila pred domaco hišo,
ali mracen kot samostan pod hribom in park,
v katerem si nekoc poln tesnobe cakal,
da se tvoja mati vrnejo od spovedi,
ata pa so tisti cas v zidanici,
ki jo je po vojni nova oblast nacionalizirala skupaj z ostalim
posestvom, stiskali vino, nagrajeno z diplomo,
ki še danes visi na zidu, v katerega gledam.

[ Father ]

You have never said anything
and I have never heard anything
but there is no doubt:
that which is beyond in me
comes from
the twilight of your
silence.
There inside glows the measure
for the deep end of memory,
for the inquiring looks from under the eyebrows,
for the rustle of woods on the steep dark green slopes,
for the wild heights wrapped in fog
and farther still, like the shriek of a bird
that dashes from a damp shadow for the sun,
for the slopes amid the grapes, tottering into wine
under the golden weight of autumn.
Out of you wells reminiscence of the Tyrol cravings for the Mediterranean,
those hard green shackles on the pyramids of red granite over Bozen .
Or of the long, moist nights,
out of which dreams spread deep into the tissue
of another reality,
nights, out of which I awoke shaken,
sullen, subdued,
a witness to prenatal states,
unable to communicate them well,
stammering and still wet from the pure sobbing of my soul.

Later though, imperceptibly almost, down
the valleys of dark green hips
and sharp rocks, slashed from the sun and ice.
You may have known it all,
of the chain of fathers and sons and how accumulated experience
is passed into seed and from one soul to another.
Up the valley, along the river, the waves of
world history penetrated, touching the cells' nuclei,
marking them.
The world is centerless.
An ancestor, absorbed in thought, raised his eyes and
erected a chapel to a saint at the mouth of the river,
into the ravine he built a sign
which people have come to see from afar, wanting to learn of …

History ebbed and flowed like a flood,
it named sons or daughters, leaving them indelibly marked.
We all are marked,
focused, we have all written
what we have not always understood.
We have left graves behind, strewn with flint sand,
now ablaze with the shattered sun. Motionless like a sparrow hawk on a twig.
The gaze of the deceased harboured also our confidence and strength.
This presence, this measure, moves through the silence of one's soul like deer in the dark,
across the invisible insight that resides differently and travels differently.
And not only you and I, everyone trembles awe-struck by these
vistas, by the spirit that winds through the valley,
gay from blossoming fruit trees,
baroque like the royal carriage from Statenberg Castle that pulled up at the house,
dusky like the cloister and the park at the front,
where once, feeling anxious, you waited
for your mother to return from confession,
while in the vineyard cottage,
which was nationalized after the war with the rest of
the estate, granddad was making wine which won
a diploma that still hangs on the wall I am looking at.

Iztok Osojnik