Hatchet in a knot

Father, it’s time for us to meet in wakefulness.
You, entirely of memories and ashes. I . . .

You will recognize me easily.
I bear your eyes, your chin, your destiny,
marked on my skin.

Father, it’s time we admitted the existence of a hatchet,
driven into a knot.

I am not asking you for a miracle.
I am not asking you to tug at the blade.
I assent to the fact
that our hearth will forever be cold.

I am asking you for a simple admission:
we did not obey the laws of growth.

And I accept the excuse:
it was cold,
which is why the handle shivered in our grip.

Father, that is all I am asking for.

I know, you have always said
that birds are merely trees’ visitors.
That the wind sifts the leaves only for itself.
But this is the way I am.

How can I throw my slender youth
onto the pyre of memory,
if there is mute steel lurking in it?

Let us admit to its existence, father.
So death will be easier for you
and life less of a burden for me.

Sekira v grci

Sekira v grci

Oce, cas je, da se srecava v budnosti.
Ti ves iz spominov in pepela. Jaz . . .

Z lahkoto me boš prepoznal.
Nosim tvoje oci, tvojo brado, tvojo usodo,
zapisano v koži.

Oce, cas je, da priznava obstoj sekire,
zadrte v grco.

Ne prosim te za cudež.
Ne prosim te, da bi izruval rezilo.
Pristajam na to,
da bo najino ognjišce za zmerom mrzlo.

Prosim te za preprosto priznanje:
nisva spoštovala zakonov rasti.

In sprejmem izgovor:
mraz je bil,
zato je toporišce vztrepetalo med prsti.

Oce, to je vse, za kar prosim.

Vem, zmerom si govoril,
da so ptice le gostje dreves.
Da veter prebira liste le sebi.
A jaz ne morem drugace.

Kako naj svojo vitko mladost
vržem na ogenj spomina,
ce v njej tici neizreceno jeklo?

Priznajva njegov obstoj, oce.
Da bo tebi smrt lažja
in meni življenje manj utrudljivo.