Vanja Strle


A pupa of flame
and a frost sickle above it.

No, I don’t hear anything at all.
The deafened substance
of silence, fallen out of itself,
a soot and fog factory
for a drunken sun.

And yet there is no mirror bearing
the ray, which comes from the dance of two hands,
an unknown mute letter in the ear of grain of nearness.

like a parachute of dreams.

As if the soul had knocked against the bronze,
against the juncture of a fluidic binding,
which pulsates through the veins
and wants a sticking resin of the trap.

No, I don’t hear anything at all.
In all directions the forgotten silence

sighing stunningly to much.



Nothing repeats nothing:
It cannot be blown whatever,
be disseminated,
be told all over the blue sky,
in the silent whisper of the river banks,
in the speechless fate of dust,
in the earth, the elucidated volcano of matter,
over there, where the end of human eyes lies,
the end of all yearnings
and of all shapes and worlds,
there stillness rises from the depths
through the omnipresent translucence.

You are not
a flower of ever-changing forms
I see you in that way,
a fruitful flower,
if I look at you
and I can not see you,
a present and undefined empty rose,
when I lay down the eyes on the stars,
the galaxies
of tiny deaths, which do not exist.

You wake up the fugitive forms all over,
you watch yourself at them,
you, the cradle of oceans and hands
grabbing the horizon
until it falls to pieces;

for the seed of the beginning in a memory bed,
in the mind of ash
up to the bitter end of it,
so peaceful and quiet
for your negligible and beautiful births.

You are everlasting.

But I still beg you,
I want to give you the warmth
from your shapes
for my very blind eyes,
when I lull myself
on your ring of light
and kiss the human heart,

everlasting, I say you,
let the human heart become
your secret never-ending measure,
the true love.



What is wrapped in the horn, what hangs
in oblivion of time,
there shines a remote spirit balance,
measuring the fruits of our knowledge,
covered with darkness,
in every moment nearer and forthcoming.

How many springs have been pigeon-holed
in the foggy land,
nearly inaudibly,
fleeing noiselessly!

Your loving eyes are a long way away,
still more distant are you, the auroral serenity.

A hand-bell washed you
in the lap of stone
and the violet shadow which you strain,
percolating it into the vertical axle,
keeps hitting time
like the final birth.



The soil is
red as the skyline’s brow
nearly brittle substance of dust,
and in the focus a dancing soul – in the image
of a day, which is so glorious due to it.

How far were we able to come
and how far is this dreadful way going to take us,
that house of fear, which rolls itself through instants
and takes away their own circuits?

An absent and overdue lump,
which I throw at the vision,
so that it blushes,
and the dusty stuff, nearly liable to be hurt,
which I do not know yet.

I stay where I am;
I will not leave.
Whither, as time travels.

The silent pupil of the eye of stillness,
through which we go as nightwalkers,
cuddles us with what we had given to each other,
when we believed,
that we are not a thing.



The ocean of dried flowers
washes up fallen kisses of sleep;

a cried-out messenger of dried foams,
a cold dusky sheaf
which freezes everything it touches,
it holds variations of shapes between its teeth,
in the jaws of sands
which are swallowed by a dragonfly,
shedding tears into its own dreams.

Maybe the stone and the stone
and the earth which opens itself
for some wheat, are the handful of life.

Who knows where I stand, who knows
if I see a ship before my eyes,
like a melting snowflake
when admiring beauty,
ylem of warm eyes which flows away,
the only nakedness which makes me spread my hands
like the chameleon extending beyond worlds.

(translated by author)