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Gedicht

Brane Mozetič

They wouldn’t give anything to help me

They wouldn’t give anything to help me
survive. No faith nor a hope
to repent, beg, be redeemed. No love
to scatter about. So I’d go on
crashing into things, begging for attention,
tenderness, arms
to embrace me. They didn’t give
me old traditions, customs, all the days
alike and I don’t anticipate any
specifically. They gave me the ability
to experience pain at the turn of a page, to deal
with it at the same time. With clenched
lips. They gave a rude preciseness
which blows up every so often, causing me
to topple down. They gave me a world
in which I’m staggering and which
I can’t feel. I can only see a crowd of
people who’ve put on t-shirts
that say: I’m nobody. Who are you?
We meet in the street, at work, the cinema,
in bars. We talk, ask, answer. And it
hurts us. But we don’t know any better.

They wouldn’t give anything to help me

Ničesar mi niso dali, kar bi mi pomagalo
obstati. Nobene vere, da bi lahko upal,
se pokesal, prosil in bil rešen. Nobene
ljubezni, da bi jo trosil naokoli. Da se
ne bi kar naprej zaletaval, moledoval za
pozornost, nežnost, za roko, ki bi me
s strastjo objela. Niso mi dali starih
navad, običajev, vsi dnevi so enaki in
nobenega ne pričakujem posebej, se
veselim. Dali so mi sposobnost
doživljati bolečino, že ob premiku lista,
in jo obenem prenašati. Stisnjenih ust.
Dali so mi osorno natančnost, ki vsake
toliko poči, da se prevrnem v prepad.
Dali so mi svet, po katerem me zanaša,
in ki ga ne čutim. Vidim le polno ljudi,
ki so podlegli. Oblekli so si majice
z napisom: I’m nobody. Who are you?
Srečujemo se na cesti, v službah, v kinu,
v lokalih ter se tako pogovarjamo,
sprašujemo in odgovarjamo. In nas boli.
A ne znamo drugače.
Brane  Mozetič

Brane Mozetič

(Slovenië, 1958)

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They wouldn’t give anything to help me

Ničesar mi niso dali, kar bi mi pomagalo
obstati. Nobene vere, da bi lahko upal,
se pokesal, prosil in bil rešen. Nobene
ljubezni, da bi jo trosil naokoli. Da se
ne bi kar naprej zaletaval, moledoval za
pozornost, nežnost, za roko, ki bi me
s strastjo objela. Niso mi dali starih
navad, običajev, vsi dnevi so enaki in
nobenega ne pričakujem posebej, se
veselim. Dali so mi sposobnost
doživljati bolečino, že ob premiku lista,
in jo obenem prenašati. Stisnjenih ust.
Dali so mi osorno natančnost, ki vsake
toliko poči, da se prevrnem v prepad.
Dali so mi svet, po katerem me zanaša,
in ki ga ne čutim. Vidim le polno ljudi,
ki so podlegli. Oblekli so si majice
z napisom: I’m nobody. Who are you?
Srečujemo se na cesti, v službah, v kinu,
v lokalih ter se tako pogovarjamo,
sprašujemo in odgovarjamo. In nas boli.
A ne znamo drugače.

They wouldn’t give anything to help me

They wouldn’t give anything to help me
survive. No faith nor a hope
to repent, beg, be redeemed. No love
to scatter about. So I’d go on
crashing into things, begging for attention,
tenderness, arms
to embrace me. They didn’t give
me old traditions, customs, all the days
alike and I don’t anticipate any
specifically. They gave me the ability
to experience pain at the turn of a page, to deal
with it at the same time. With clenched
lips. They gave a rude preciseness
which blows up every so often, causing me
to topple down. They gave me a world
in which I’m staggering and which
I can’t feel. I can only see a crowd of
people who’ve put on t-shirts
that say: I’m nobody. Who are you?
We meet in the street, at work, the cinema,
in bars. We talk, ask, answer. And it
hurts us. But we don’t know any better.
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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
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