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The Aztec


Lilies are mystery,
little wild boar!
With the skull which will break
like a skull of the otter. And like
the sun's scissors tiring my flowers.
Like this rumbling of the engine which
goes as long as it goes. Why are you
born into the red air, fluid!

The birth is the collapse of a bridge.
The last black cat's body hair falls.
And my palate, teeth and the tongue,
Komna, where I was skiing,
are all registered for death.

Who repeats the damp treacherous                      (revisions)
seed, not more than
cramps of the blackest karmas.
White otter, look!
Clouds decompose themselves in front of your eyes          (ruin)
but they don't tear apart the fairytale.

What should the rabbit's ear do with my saliva!
I won't console him, even if screaming:
No me muerdas!
Muerde me!


     Translated from the Slovenian by Michael Thomas Taren and the author