Srecko Kosovel

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Srecko Kosovel Ljubljana is asleep. In red chaos a new humanity is approaching! Ljubljana is asleep. Europe is dying in a red light. The phone lines are all dead. Oh, but this one is cordless. A blind horse. [As if your eyes were from Italian paintings.] White towers rise out of dun walls. The flood. Europe is sinking into a grave. We come with a hurricane. With poison gasses. [Your lips are like strawberries.] Ljubljana is asleep. On the tram the conductor is asleep "The Slovenian news" is read in the Europa cafe with the clicking of billiard balls. “Autumn Quiet It is quiet as autumn inside me and outside. Beautiful as far as I can think. A big job awaits me. Isn’t that joyful? I am not striving for an honorary award in the society of man, just for a world of beauty and justice. What is joy? The wish to live. The joy of life. Who care for awards! I am a step closer to life in which I must make my mark. “This Horrible Time”: This horrible, unsettling time is flooding our search with disquietude— in every direction, every direction, breaking and killing our dreams. Crime—Sacrament, the sacrament is a crime, suffering attached to love, the heart’s old temples plundered as if they were damned. From dead and abandoned dwellings grey, desperate prayers are sailing— European man, half-dead, calling for salvation . . .

Ljubljana is asleep.

In red chaos a new humanity
is approaching! Ljubljana is asleep.
Europe is dying in a red light.
The phone lines are all dead.
Oh, but this one is cordless.
A blind horse.
[As if your eyes were from
Italian paintings.]
White towers rise
out of dun walls.
The flood.
Europe is sinking into a grave.
We come with a hurricane.
With poison gasses.
[Your lips are like strawberries.]
Ljubljana is asleep.
On the tram the conductor is asleep
"The Slovenian news"
is read in the Europa cafe
with the clicking of billiard balls.

“Autumn Quiet

It is quiet as autumn inside me
and outside. Beautiful
as far as I can think.

A big job awaits me.
Isn’t that joyful?

I am not striving
for an honorary award
in the society of man,
just for
a world of beauty
and justice.

What is joy?
The wish to live.
The joy of life.
Who care for awards!

I am a step closer to life
in which I must make
my mark.

“This Horrible Time”:

This horrible, unsettling time
is flooding our search with disquietude—
in every direction, every direction,
breaking and killing our dreams.
Crime—Sacrament, the sacrament is a crime,
suffering attached to love,
the heart’s old temples plundered
as if they were damned.
From dead and abandoned dwellings
grey, desperate prayers are sailing—
European man, half-dead,
calling for salvation . . .