Humble is the charity of early mornings. Everything that happens then
must happen: to you, to me, to the whole world. Temptation
is great indeed: we gaze, enchanted, as a fires eternal glow
melts the columns of cathedrals, a virgins slumber, and the hidden
spring of a toy. We watch, motionless, as in a tranquil
family crypt. Each of us, I think, is already doomed. We are silent.
What else could we do? Like a stunned witness in a country
when it was still a country. It lives on, exiled into an image
which wont let us sleep. Day and night quiver in our pupils. Do we
kneel, hoping the storm will take pity on us and bring a mothers gentle
forgiveness? That it will blur the line between the altar and the offering?
I guess, I know: there is no greater mistake. Embers cover the fire screen.
Even the blood spilling down a girls hip has lost its taste. It doesnt smell
like plowed soil crumbling in our fingers. In vain we try: were less than a footnote.
translated from Slovenian by Christopher Merrill
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