Jezdeci pozabe
Nomadi živijo na robu.
Njihova dežela je preplet mineralov.
Vsaka smer neba je druge barve in vsaka barva
se v sebi neprestano seli. Jurta se zdi bela,
a jo preplavljajo sence in tiha domačnost.
Skozi tunduk pristajajo zvezde in angeli
na krilatih konjih. Gostje sedijo nasproti vrat,
a nikdar zares ne odidejo. Mleko jim teče
po bradah in prsti so lepljivi od kompota.
Čajne skodelice nimajo dna. Gospodinja
nalaga kravjake v peč, da obrazi postajajo
mehki in govorica počasi zavre.
Mehurček v zelenem kristalu prehaja skozi
letne čase. Iz struge ledeniškega potoka
ga dvigne razbrazdana roka. Bolot ga spravi
v žep in nadaljuje z žilavo hojo.
To je nekakšen način, da človek prestavi goro.
Riders of the Oblivion
Nomads live on the edge.
Their land is an intertwinement of minerals.
Every direction in the sky has a different colour and every colour
moves constantly in itself. The yurt seems white
but is overflown by shadows and quiet intimacy.
Through the tunduk stars are landing, and angels
on winged horses. Guests sit opposite the door,
they never truly leave. The milk pours over their chins
and their fingers get sticky from the compote.
Teacups do not have a bottom. The hostess
loads cowpats in the oven, the faces
are becoming soft and talking slowly boils.
A bubble in the green crystal is passing through
the seasons. A furrowed hand lifts it up
from the riverbed of the glacier stream. Bolot puts it
in the pocket and continues his tenacious walk.
This is some kind of way for human to move a mountain.
Written, translated & photographed by Uroš Marolt.