Ivan Dobnik - Vilenica

Maybe
* * *
Ivan Dobnik · 101
All of this is open, dreamy. Forests, villages, roaring shivers of metropolises.
Where I’m going to, I have always been. Yew trees bloom on the Island of
the Dead,
on the clouds of the live sunflowers and willow catkins, a whisper of days
and nights. It screams.
Maybe no one listens, no one touches us with different
tones of words, maybe just a scared animal that crosses
asphalt road in a cold night, perfect in the beauty of its cosmic walk,
and you, faithful in all the encounters of our breathing, beyond roaring,
beyond time, beyond body. The language of wings, raised by
maybe. The light in the garden, under the trees, that touches eyes and tongue.
Where you lie on your back under the crown of a summer tree. You wake up.
You recognize the song of leaves and roots. Scent and wind bring the evening,
you are sunk into the interconstellation crackle, maybe expecting
a witness to revelation. There’s fire. Green light, green eyes, green skin
on the muscles of motionless beings that watch you, in a herd of dancing and frolic,
in the fire that doesn’t kill. We are moving slowly, for thousands of years.