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.

Translated by Erica Johnson Debeljak