Tomaž Šalamun
He Who Will Stare

He who will stare

at my flesh eye to eye.

He who will feel the blaze

and the large gold rivers of sex.

Whose chest will dent

so a great blue heron burns there.

He who will lean on a fence

and comprehend: golden bark,

it’s full of dew.

Whose breath will be taken away,

hence his body an aggregate.

Who will perceive his own mother

and become shaken to a shriek of glee.

He who will see a flower

and know all things:

he is here.

Let him not flinch.

Let him not rage.

Let him not shrink into a grimace

but fall with his forehead to the ground.

He will become my bread.
 





        Translated from the Slovenian by Ana Jelnikar and Peter Richards