Kada
san se varni z dalekeh kraji
na soje ognjišće,
jas ga nisan naša.
Od kuće moje je samo gromača ustala
trdega kamenja...
S velikim rišpeton se san to obaša
I z rukon kamienje diza I gladi
kako da je živo.
Paralo mi se je: da vidin drieva
čuda na ognjišću, va ognju veliken,
I kotal pun vodi viseć na kadinah,
I napo so črno od jako stareh saj.
Mi se paralo: otac na banke sedi, mi drugi po kraju.
Uon poveda štuorio: amor od treh naranč,
a mat marune spod uglievlja vinima
I vina dobrega toči...
I ni ga već... tega starega našega ognjišća,
ni matere pod napon, ni oca već na banke.
Se pusto I mrtvo leži pod gromačon
črnega kamienja... |
When
I returned home from far away lands
to my fireplace,
I did not find it.
Only a pile of stones remained of my house
only hard stones...
I checked it out with great respect
picked up and caressed the stones with my hands
as if they were alive.
It seemed to me as if I saw wood
lots of wood on the fireplace, making a big fire,
and the pot full of water hanging from the chain,
and the fireplace mantel shelf black from very old soot.
It seemed: the father was sitting on the bench, the rest of
us around.
He was telling a story: about the love of three oranges,
mother was pulling chestnuts from under the charcoal
and pouring good wine.
But, it's no longer there... that old fireplace of ours,
and no mother under the mantel shelf, or father on the bench.
All lies abandoned and empty under the pile
of black stones...
|
