Zajc Dane:
Bells Of A New Day
Wind. And rocks.
And cold.
Cold in the red sky.
Cold in the bluish peaks.
In the frozen moss.
Cold in the scarlet blossoms.
Cold in the abyss,
where the fog swirls round
into a ball of rancor,
into a ball of nausea,
into a ball of hysterical laughter.
The morning is heralded by
the soft bells of the herd
upon the ridge.
From the dark waters
emerge the rocky shoulders of the mountains.
Grim and immobile.
The wind rips by them
an invisible sail boat.
The morning is heralded by clouds
which wash their threatening
greedy hands
in the bloody lake of first dawn.
The sky is blanketed in the dance of bears.
It is blanketed by a dark threat.
Cold settles on the earth.
The first light lies
dismembered among the rocks.
The fog simmers in the cauldron of the abyss.
You are alone in this world.
Like a rock is alone,
sighs the wind
past the mountain’s craggy face.
And with this solace, the broken bells
of a herd of sheep
ring in the new day.
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