Aleš Debeljak - Slovenian Poetry

Botanical Garden

Izanska Road, Ljubljana

                                

                                    for Simona Skrabec


Times passes more slowly.  When the air is cold,
I expect more inaccuracies.  I am cheered by the plants
and haystacks that have grown on the beaches
beneath skyscrapers.  Not all is quiet on the western front.

And later: to pour hot coffee and to bring the ceramic cup
with the same hand to the mouth, this is a tremendous gift.
To praise the achievements of gardeners and ruffle the parrots
shrieking in the parks of Barcelona, to grow up in the language

of a strict mother and absent husband, to write requests,
to murmur harvest songs, to nibble on the branch of a weeping
willow on the sleepless nights hoping for an answer from a high
place.  It will come like a silent whistle and a long train

with a carriage for dreams.  Later, when the air is warm,
I expect unstoppable growth and the blooming of magnetic
eyes, black-red elderberry juice and living things.
Honor to whom honor is due: I'm left with only silent reading.


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