SILVER

Silver are the bellies of fish bargaining with their weight,
trying to discard it in the pawnshops of th sky,
Silver are the backs of waves, telling the rocks where
they’ve come from, and what they’ve experienced on the way,
but they never finish the story; because, short of breath,
sentences fall apart again and again on formations of salt,
Silver is the kindness of olive tress unlocking their shadows
and placing them in three tone levels of braying,
Silver is the scent of rosemary, that with the same care
pastes the juice from a wound on a baked fish, and on a gradual
leave-taking of the day,
Silver is noon, ordering everyone to keep still,
to measure the volume of their happiness with slow breathing,
to journey in their thoughts to the harbor
from which their childhood sailed away in a distant dawn,
Silver is the wind, adding to every hour of oblivion
three additional hours of oblivion, the hours that constantly
happen in the present,
Silver are sails, which in truth are white, and are silvery
because of the imagination’s needs, and because of the
celebration of their inaudible movement,
Silver is the stillness of the afternoon, fastening its warmth
to the earth and then refusing to give
the seat to the approaching evening,
Silver are the traces of clouds, buildings cities in the air,
where we are invited when, after lunch,
we are buried under the avalanche of sleep,
Silver are the snow-drifts of algae, which have emerged
from the night waves to succumb on the silent indifference of
gravel in the morning,
Silver are the shouts of people who love their bodies,
Silver are the treetops of cypresses etching fugitive letters
on the flexible skin of summer,
Silver are vineyards, where the restless pheasants are preparing
for the shipwreck of the southern wind,
Silver is the flight of a seagull, stitching together the spoken
and the unspoken, making a lasting truce with the banging
of evening bells,
Silver is the movements of dry grass, having forgotten
the true life of the previous spring, and now
its ghosts wrestle day after day with the empty sleeves of wind,
Silver is the ring of moonlight which I place
on your ring-finger as you leave your body and urge
the night to return to you, prematurely dead,
Silver is the moon’s rain, stopping
to caress the two of us when we are melting, silvered from
summer sweat,
And silver are the downy seeds
I watch lying on my back,
with eyes etched in the azures of the sky,
watching them falling from nowhere, disappearing to who
knows where.

Silver, the color of my mind!

SREBRO

SREBRO

Srebrni so trebuhi rib, ki barantajo s svojo tezo
in jo skušajo odloziti v zastavljalnice neba,
Srebrni so hrbti valov, ki pripovedujejo skalam, od kod
prihajajo in kaj vse so doziveli na poti,
a nikoli ne dokoncajo zgodbe, ker jim
zadihani stavki vedno znova razpadejo na oblike soli,
Srebrna je prijaznost oljk, ki odklepajo svoje sence,
da bodo vanje polozile tri razlicne višine oslovskega riganja,
Srebrno je dišanje rozmarina, ki z isto pozornostjo
prilepi sok iz rane na peceno ribo in na pocasno
poslavljanje dneva,
Srebrno je opoldne, ki ukaze vsem, naj mirujejo
in s pocasnim dihanjem premerijo širino svoje srece,
se v mislih sprehodijo do pristanišca,
iz katerega je v neki davni zori odplulo njihovo otroštvo,
Srebrn je veter, ki vsaki uri pozabe prišteje tri
dodatne ure pozabe, ki se konstantno dogajajo v
sedanjosti,
Srebrna so jadra, ki so v resnici bela in so srebrna
zaradi potreb domišljije in slavljanja neslišnega
gibanja,
Srebrna je nepremicnost popoldneva, ki svojo toploto
priveze na zemljo in potem noce odstopiti
sedeza prihajajocemu veceru,
Srebrne so sledi oblakov, ki gradijo mesta v zraku,
kamor smo povabljeni, ko nas po kosilu
zasuje plaz spanca,
Srebrni so kriki ljudi, ki ljubijo svoja telesa,
Srebrni so vrhovi cipres, ki rišejo neobstojne pismenke
na prozno kozo poletja,
Srebrni so vinogradi, kjer se nemirni fazani pripravljajo
na brodolom juga,
Srebrn je let galeba, ki šiva skupaj povedano in zamolcano
in sklepa trajno premirje z udarci vecernih zvonov,
Srebrno je gibanje posušene trave, ki je pozabila
svoje zivljenje v zadnji pomladi in se zdaj
njeni duhovi vsak dan ruvajo s praznimi rokavi vetra,
Srebrn je prstan iz mesecine, ki ti ga natikam
na prstanec, ko zapustiš telo in nagovarjaš
noc, naj ti vrne vse prezgodaj umrle,
Srebrn je dez lune, ki se ustavi in naju
boza, ko se topiva posrebrena od poletnega
znoja,
In srebrna so puhasta semena,
ki jih gledam lezec na hrbtu,
z ocmi, vrezanimi v modrino neba,
kako padajo od nikoder in izgnjajo neznano kam.

Srebro, barva mojega uma!