RETURNING HOME (poem) - Uroš Zupan - Slovenia

VRACANJE DOMOV

Prašne ceste, glas, ki se dvigne iz grla in se
raztopi v pušcavi, vonj zlošcenega parketa
v nekem septembrskem jutru, dialogi svetlobe
in senc, ki smo jih pozabili zapisati, moznost

biti na nekem drugem kraju, ceprav je nespodbitno,
da so noge vtisnjene v ta asfalt in se cas
kot zivo srebro odbija po zilah. V vsem tem
išcemo zavetišce, ko se vracamo domov.

Nebo nad glavami je zgrbanceno in spodaj, nekje
na desni se sliši umirjeno drhtenje reke, v katero
nikoli ne stopiš dvakrat. Nekje, za nekoga je tako,
vedno tako. Doma nas pricakujejo stvari, ki so

odrinjene v tišino, in vcasih se nam zazdi,
da je neka pozabljena ptica prihnila iz
jutranje megle, se napotila proti mejam pricakovanja,
kajti zivljenje se sestavlja zdaj, ko ni obraza,

ki bi opazoval svoj odsev v steklu,
in ni roke, ki bi ze stotic ta vecer zdrsnila po licih,
da bi preverila starost nekoga, ki nas vztrajno
pricakuje. Mirno odmevajo koraki, se plazijo po vlaznih

stenah noci, mirno tece tista temna reka,
ki se bo zjutraj spremenila v srebro, in mirno se
razdalja, ki jo še lahko izmeri spomin, daljša in daljša,
se pocasi kot ti koraki vije v narocje negotovi prihodnosti.

RETURNING HOME

Dusty roads, a voice that rises from a throat
and dissolves in the desert, the smell of a polished parquet floor
on one September morning, dialogues of light
and shadows we have forgotten to transcribe, a possibility

to be in some other place, though our feet are
indisputably impressed in this asphalt, and time
rebounds like quicksilver in our veins. In all
this we seek shelter, returning home.

The sky above our heads is ruffled, and down below,
somewhere on the right, the calm ripple of the river
never stepped into twice is heard. Somewhere,
for someone, it is so, always so. At home,

things pushed aside into silence await us. And at times
it seems some forgotten bird has fluttered
out of the morning mist, setting off
for the borders of expectation, for life puts itself together

now, in the absence of a face observing its reflection in the glass,
in the absence of a hand sliding down the cheeks for
the hundredth time this evening to learn of the age
of one patiently awaiting us. Calmly the steps echo,

slithering along the moist walls of the night, calmly that
dark river runs, which will turn into silver in the morning,
and calmly the distance which memory may yet measure
grows longer and longer, like these steps, slowly winding

into the arms of an uncertain future.