to the love that haunted me

v slovenščini

Zažgite zgodovinske knjige,
uvrstite jih
na svoj
index librorum prohibitorum
ker vam lažejo,
da bi vas zasužnjile
v ozki malomeščanski morali.

Hladnega zimskega dne
1875
sta se v Nemčiji srečala, še enkrat,
Rimbaud in Verlaine
in tedaj
na novo izumila ljubezen.

Razkačenost.
Gnev.
Strastna gorečnost.
Koprnenje.
Poželenje.
Naslada vseh čutov.

Ko se je polegla brutalnost besed
in sta omahnila, do konca izčrpana,
se je Paul
nagnil naprej,
skoraj sramežljivo
(čeprav sta že marsikaj doživela skupaj),
dotaknil se je njegovega angelskega obraza
in ga plaho
poljubil
na razžarjeno čelo,
na demonske oči,
na pohlepne ustnice,
sestradane ljubkovanja.

Družno sta odrinila,
na pijanem čolnu,
za soncem.
Medtem je v Parizu
lahno padal dež
in srca pesnikov so se smehljala
skozi solze.

Šla sta naprej in naprej in naprej,
in živela pustolovščine iz otroških knjig.
Gola sta lovila zvezde v puščavi,
ljubimkala s sirenami sredi oceanov.
Pogosto sta legla, tesno objeta, na obalo,
in zaspala povsem pijana – od lepote, najbrž – kdo ve?

Bila sta si angel in demon,
mož in žena,
ljubimec in ljubimka,
bila so nebesa
in bil je pekel.

Verlaine je rojeval pesmi,
poredne
(in včasih otožne),
blagoglasne,
polne žlahtnih melodij.

Iz globin Rimbaudove biti
je kipela
poezija samoglasnikov,
lahkotno, brez napora
vse dni,
vse noči.

Paul
jo je poslušal,
srečen
kot otrok v času nedolžnosti,
in jo zapisal v veter
s krvjo srca.

Ko sta se postarala,
sta se vrnila v Pariz,
držeč se za roke.

Še danes bi ju lahko videli
v kotu kakšne kavarne,
ko srkata absint,
se pogovarjata z očmi,
z dlanmi,
z ustnicami,
z dotiki,
in smeje uživata
v šalah, ki so samo njune.

A ker v resnici
nista bila s tega sveta
sta nekega dne
preprosto
zdrsnila v večnost
ki sta jo že nekoč prej odkrila
tam, kjer
sonce
poljublja morje.

in english

Burn the history textbooks
put them
on your
index librorum prohibitorum
because they lie,
they want to enslave you
to the strait bourgeois morals.

On a cold winter day
in 1875
Rimbaud and Verlaine
met in Germany, once more,
and then
reinvented love.

Anger.
Rage.
Passionate zeal.
Yearning.
Lust.
Bliss of all senses.

When the savageness of their words died away,
and they staggered, totally exhausted,
Paul
lent forward,
almost shyly
(although they shared many strange experiences)
touched his angel face
and timidly
kissed him
on his red-hot forehead,
on his demonic eyes,
on his greedy lips,
starving for affection.

Together they set out
on the drunken boat
to follow the sun.
Meanwhile in Paris
it rained gently
and the hearts of the poets smiled
through the tears.

They went on and on and on,
and lived adventures from children's books.
They chased the stars in the desert, naked,
they flirted with sirens in the midst of the oceans.
Often they stretched out on a shore, in a tight hug,
and slept, totally drunk – of beauty, likely - who knows?

To each other, they were an angel and a demon,
a husband and a wife,
a lover and a sweetheart,
there was heaven
and there was hell.

Verlaine was giving birth to many poems,
naughty
(and sometimes melancholic),
sweet-voiced,
full of noble melodies.

From the depths of Rimbaud's existence
seethed
the poetry of vowels,
with ease, without any strain,
every day,
every night.

Paul
hearkened to it,
happy
as a child in the age of innocence
and wrote it down into the wind
with his heart's blood.

When they grew old,
they returned to Paris,
hand in hand.

You could have seen them this very day
in a corner of some café,
sipping the absinthe,
talking with their eyes,
their palms,
their lips,
their touches,
and laughingly enjoying
their private jests.

But since they were not
from this world, really,
one day
they simply slid away
into eternity
they found in the olden days,
there, where
the sun
kisses
the sea.

© Aleks 2006