Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Brane Mozetič

It’s midnight almost and I silently stare

it’s midnight almost and I silently stare
into the blackness before me, no image of the
day left, no dream left of the night, pretty
or melancholy, as if time came to a standstill

in vain I strive to reawaken the image of your face
in vain all recollections, as if they’d broken loose
the twitching of hands reverberating through the dark
and the sighs, the beloved words

I want, at least, to recall the feeling
the last trace of beauty after love is over
the smell, the taste; abysmal emptiness

wafts up to me as I stand on the vast
white sand of the shore and the fog falls
and I do not see, do not feel anything anymore.

It’s midnight almost and I silently stare

polnoč bo in nemo gledam predse
v mrak, od dneva ni ostala niti
slika, od noči ne sanja, lepa
ali tožna, kot da čas stoji

zaman poskušam tvoj obraz buditi
zaman spomine, kot da so ušli
hitijo skozi temo krči rok
in vzdihi, ljubljene besede

skušam obuditi vsaj občutje
sled lepote, ko ljubezen mine
tisti vonj, okus; praznina veje

grozna, ko stojim na širnem belem
pesku ob obali in spusti se megla
in ne vidim, čutim več ničesar.
Close

It’s midnight almost and I silently stare

it’s midnight almost and I silently stare
into the blackness before me, no image of the
day left, no dream left of the night, pretty
or melancholy, as if time came to a standstill

in vain I strive to reawaken the image of your face
in vain all recollections, as if they’d broken loose
the twitching of hands reverberating through the dark
and the sighs, the beloved words

I want, at least, to recall the feeling
the last trace of beauty after love is over
the smell, the taste; abysmal emptiness

wafts up to me as I stand on the vast
white sand of the shore and the fog falls
and I do not see, do not feel anything anymore.

It’s midnight almost and I silently stare

it’s midnight almost and I silently stare
into the blackness before me, no image of the
day left, no dream left of the night, pretty
or melancholy, as if time came to a standstill

in vain I strive to reawaken the image of your face
in vain all recollections, as if they’d broken loose
the twitching of hands reverberating through the dark
and the sighs, the beloved words

I want, at least, to recall the feeling
the last trace of beauty after love is over
the smell, the taste; abysmal emptiness

wafts up to me as I stand on the vast
white sand of the shore and the fog falls
and I do not see, do not feel anything anymore.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère