Raven

Devours
the star eyes at daybreak.
The ambrosial part of the night face,
cooling itself on high pillows.
He dives on it, the night bed,
a black bird rapping.

When he flies, he flies through solitude.
As through a hollow within a hollow,
that escorts him, perpetually recreating itself.

When he swoops down
his wings imitate
the voice of wind. Of a scythe.
As if the wind plunged down from a mountain.
As if the scythe cuts air.

At times he flies in twos.
Even then his sailing is but
falling into circles of solitude.
She
keeps a quiet distance.
Their wings don\'t touch.
They fly in the space of
two circles.

He sings in three ways.
In three distinctive tongues.
All three are meant for himself.
For his ear, for conversations with the self.
No imitator, this bird.
If he imitates, he echoes himself,
his voices, intricate
language of curved calls.

When he flies low
on his wings glimmers
a black defiance of the kingdom of
mystery.

Krokar

Krokar

Pozira
navsezgodaj zvezdne oèi.
Najbolj slastni del noènega obraza,
ki se ohlaja na visokih vzglavnikih.
Nanjo se spusti, na posteljo noèno,
in kljuje, kljuje.

Kadar leti, leti skoz samoto.
Kakor skoz votlino v votlini,
ki gre z njim in se sproti obnavlja.

Kadar se spusti nizko,
perutnice oponašajo
glas vetra. Kose.
Kakor da je veter planil z gore.
Kakor da kosa kosi zrak.

Vèasih leti v dvoje.
Tudi takrat je njegov let
padanje v kroge samote.
Tista, ki jo spremlja,
je v tihi razdalji.
Ne dotikata se s perutnicami.
V prostorih iz dveh kolobarjev
letita.

Poje na tri naèine.
V treh razliènih govoricah.
Vse so sebi namenjene.
Za lastno uho, za pogovor s sabo.
Ni oponašavec, ptiè kljukasti.
Èe oponaša, tedaj sebe,
tedaj svoje glasove, zapleteno
govorico vijugastih klicev.

Ko leti nizko,
se mu na perutih lesketa
èrno kljubovanje kraljestva
skrivnosti.