My road signs

Sometimes it’s not the streets and road signs that lead us, but things that are even more deeply rooted in us, things that are like an internal compass, a needle constantly pointing the right way in order for us not to get lost in the maze of everyday life. For me, it’s the two rivers I grew up with and lost sight of when I moved to my new home.

Just days ago we celebrated the first Soča river day. While writing a poem in my mother tongue to celebrate this, I realized I was struggling to find the right rhythm, suitable words, revealing metaphors. I’ve been writing in English for so long that I lost touch when it came to my mother tongue, I lost sight of my road signs. My inner compass got rusty and needed some cleansing and nudging to point in the right direction again.

Soča

Vsak večer

sonce nad hribi postoji,

da za trenutek, dva še ujame

svoj odsev v smaragdnem ogledalu.

Ob mraku mesec neučakan

se zaguga med oblake

in očaran od lepote tvoje

pijano razlije mesečino čez dolino.

Še čas postane (sanjav), ko se tvoj deviški

tok kot glasbene note

čez kamne preliva v melodijo –

se le zdi ali res namiguje, mamljivo šepetaje

na uho, da lahko je od tod oditi in kot ti

odteči dalje, domačo strugo zapustiti

in se razliti čez tuje planje?

Morda.

A ko okusiš prve slane solze, ko se sloji

te doline odluščijo iz trudnega spomina

in ostane le usedlina domotožja,

te zamika, da bi se vrnila, vem,

saj se jaz kot sonce, mesec,

vračam spet in spet, duša izgubljena,

v ta tihotni svet,

da bi zrla in vpila vase

tvoj bistri šepet, tolažbo matere.

The Soča

Every night

the sun lingers over the hills

to catch another glimpse or two

of its reflection in the emerald of you.

At dusk, the moon

swings impatiently amongst the clouds

and drunk from your beauty

spills the moonlight across the valley.

Even time slows (like in a dream)

as your virgin stream spills over

the stones like notes into melody

that seems to murmur temptingly that it is easy to leave here

and like you move on to foreign shores,

across unknown plains.

Perhaps.

Butwhen you taste the first salty tears,

when the layers of the valley peel

from your tired memory and the sediment

of homesickness is all that’s left,

you’re tempted to flow back, I know,

for I, like the sun, the moon,

return time and again, a lost soul,

to this quiet place

to stare and drink in

your clear whispers, a mother’s lullaby.