Nekoč sta dva zajca spala v košari.
Prvi se je rodil s šestimi srebrnimi zobmi,
drugi pa je imel kožuh ustrojen iz nepotrebne zablode,
ko sta mladi materi prečkali nek most.
Včasih je manjši v spanju grizel.
Včasih je večji zazehal
in iz gobčka se je izlilo cingljanje kamnitega zvonca,
črni princesini kodri, ki so se raztezali preko kamnitega tlaka,
in dim, ki se je vil iz tetraedričnih ruševin.
Slama v košari je bila zlata
kot lasje pri Botticelliju,
tistem, ki je petsto let spal
v neki škatli v kleti Medicejske palače.
Tistem, v katerega sem se zaljubil, ko sem se
kot otrok frnikolal v chiaroscuru.
Še dolgo sem vedel, kdo mi je izročil košaro,
držal sem jo, ko sem stal ob zidu,
ki je obkrožal neskončno bitko.
Sedaj obstaja le še moja desnica,
stegujem jo proti vrtu
in včasih jo zmoči dež,
ustvarjen iz solz njega, ki me je izklesal.
Med jeleni so moji prsti poznani
kot gozd lesenih duš.
iz angleščine prevedel Igor Divjak
Once, two rabbits slept in a basket.
One was born with six silver teeth.
The other had fur made of needles lost
when young mothers crossed a particular bridge.
Sometimes in sleep the smaller one bit.
Sometimes the larger one yawned,
and out poured a stone bell clanging,
a prince's black tresses sweeping over a flagstone,
and smoke from tetrahedonal ruins.
The straw in the basket was golden
as the hair of a Botticelli,
one that slept for five hundred years
in a box in the palazzo de Medici cellar.
The one I fell in love with when I was a child
playing marbles in the chiaroscuro.
For a long time I knew who gave me the basket,
and I held it, standing next to a wall
surrounding an endless battle.
Now only my right hand exists,
stretched into the garden,
drenched at times by a rain
composed of tears from him who carved me.
My fingers are known among the deer
as the forest of wooden souls.
