Kiprobalhato wrote:
De ten shemletish ago á mototh gevwas, sełiroi holy itzel segen serellovothevit tes hoł tes en sefrate vafas sefrailrie el, zie lamala á seleannis patahit. Zie seleannis patah lat yomyfletit ren shwcy dolemoonn.
Te shwaa geonniazie, o te gefioazie, te fiazie iene mefiet tzoolcievit. Tsool amit, shovel le xen veromi.
Moth ell xen pie wain sheman novis periewincelcievit; mieth, lateinierie vekissie shohit ell ipana onan phevicie.
Viavit? Via zie heidecie lanerá. Heide selate lilacrie de tenin sheman naefal segieel on, heiden, mototh shwmie. Od...zie lacaonatá? Ta shwssava. De te yaleannisierie lat, zie xana nayd. Te a setyle sePelossniecarie le annel goa, tes seonan vay rigot. Te setreda seoveie, seliverworet secrelhin frailrievit shelah. Te anni segolola cetset, yarell xalala nooret, el te a sypit twnełiss fas shenit ipana.
When one little pool of darkness succeeds another, and the whole room as well as the garden and surrounding area is filled with them all the way to the fish-pond at the edge of the woods, she usually comes and opens her window. She opens the window and goes off somewhere without saying a word.
I have never seen her, but I have felt her, and I always feel her as something distant, distant and mine, and incapable of being forgotten.
She used to have a dark, swarthy face and eyes like the periwinkle; later, her arms became lean and slender as a blade of grass.
And today? Today she appears as a dream. A dream of the lilac branch when mysterious pools of darkness are pouring forth from the horizon, a dream and nothing more. And yet, is she calling me? I don't know. When I go to her window, I do not see her. I listen to the green waves of the old Pločnica weeping, flowing amid the grass. I catch the scent of the liverwort, forest mushrooms and eggs. I gaze into the distance, somewhere far away, until I become sad, and infinitely lonely.
_________________
הייתי צוללת עכשיו למים
הכי, הכי עמוקים
לא לשמוע כלום
לא לדעת כלום
וזה הכל אהובי, זה הכל.