Kocbek Edvard:
Who Am I?

The same thing keeps recurring:

a twitching that I cannot subdue.

From time to time a rhythmical crackling,

as of wood settling throughout the house.

At night and by day an easing of tension,

first in the furniture, then in the floor,

in the wall somewhere, the light fixture, my books.

Each time some place new, each time inevitable,

as though building toward an earthquake or

as though a treacherous power were mounting

and the house might collapse, or somebody

immure in the wall would knock and

step through it at any minute. I swallow

with difficulty, ensnared in creaking.

I sense it acutely and I know: the warm silence

of things, the horrible aloneness of primeval,

wearisome matter. Even now the ocean washes over

England. Even now glowing magma settles

beneath our feet. In the dark I decipher the unknown

writing on the wall. In the dark I see huge eyes,

and in dreams a horrible land of whirlwinds.

Translated by Michael Biggins