He who will stare

at my flesh eye to eye.

He who will feel the blaze

and the large gold rivers of sex.

Whose chest will dent

so a great blue heron burns there.

He who will lean on a fence

and comprehend: golden bark,

it’s full of dew.

Whose breath will be taken away,

hence his body an aggregate.

Who will perceive his own mother

and become shaken to a shriek of glee.

He who will see a flower

and know all things:

he is here.

Let him not flinch.

Let him not rage.

Let him not shrink into a grimace

but fall with his forehead to the ground.

He will become my bread.
 





        Translated from the Slovenian by Ana Jelnikar and Peter Richards