Oaza
Kot spomin ravna ulica z rdečim glinenim obzidjem
na obeh straneh, za njo pustinja. Mož sedi na zidu
in strmi v daljavo nad čredo ovac.
Za zidom mogočna krošnja in lajež psa. Daleč
sva prišla: v iskanju lastnih sledi v pesku sva našla
oazo za visokimi vrati. Čas je za sprejemanje svetlobe
kot to počnejo rastline. Plodovi oljk so črni
od neprestanega hranjenja. V njih se zganejo nočne
ptice in zaskovikajo, da se limona utrne na tla,
edina svetla točka v mraku. Pijemo vino na terasi
in Atlas počasi popušča pod težo neba na hrbtu.
Nebo pritiska na palme, da se nagibajo rahlo naprej.
Druga drugi morajo biti v oporo v tem drobnem
svetu. Veter prinaša vanj zven minaretov, kot drobce stekla,
ki posuti po zidu varujejo pred prihodom tujcev.
Oasis
A street straight as a memory with red clay walls
on both sides, behind it a wasteland. A man sits on the wall
and stares into the distance above the flock of sheep.
Behind the wall a magnificent canopy and a dog bark. Far
we arrived to: in search of our own footprints in the sand
we found an oasis behind the high door. It is time to receive light
as plants do. The olive fruits are black from their ceaseless
feeding. Inside them the night birds stir and hoot
causing a lemon glint on the ground, the only bright point
in the dusk. We drink wine on the terrace while Atlas
is slowly loosening under the weight of the sky on his back.
The sky is pressuring on the palms, making them lean slightly
forward. They must support each other in this tiny
world. The wind brings in a minaret song, as fragments of glass,
sprinkled on the wall they shield from the arrival of strangers.
Written, translated & photographed by Uroš Marolt.