Dekleva Milan:
Homes Of Vision

In you I will mature,

spun between your things.

Deaf for duration.

Received by the silence of blood

I’ll become a pulsating

inventory of destiny.

With eyes that drink

neither darkness, nor light, nor misproportion of shades,

with eyes flashing

ionized wonders of foreshapes

into the small tube of the umbilical cord,

I will be yours.

Yours forever.

Hidden from all that is not

the essence of flower,

of shell,

of music,

of passing away,

yet which - from moment to moment -

still touches them all.

You live the memory, giving to the supersensuous

images of sense.

In the ear, let’s say, in the obelisk of autumn

you are building the hoarse

metropolis

of my unreality.

How many homes! For just a single illusion!