“Watch Us Float” in “What We Are When We Are / Kaj smo, ko smo”
Watch Us Float 
1
When we move here we begin going to concerts.
Like refugees who end up in an unknown place,
we follow the conductor through a blizzard of sound
until the notes on the piano knock on our muted hearts.
We follow the leader, the pied piper, who drags after
him a troop of visitors through churches, palaces, past statues
of generals who are having their eyebrows tidied up
by pigeons. The soles of the feet of bronze horsemen itch
when surrounded by strange accents. We new arrivals follow
the crumbs of welcomes right up to tablefuls of locals.
They serve us with the years marked on housefronts,
with the whisper of vestries, with chips from a castle wall,
sprinkled with salt like pretzels on a bar,
so we return home drunk with alien history.
2
We woo the land which offers us its green hand in greeting,
only later, after we shake hands, are we aware of the river,
the veins of water. In warm pockets a chestnut accustoms
our fingers to the fall which will squeeze us into a corner,
so that faces will fade away, so that shapes that are bundled
in parkas will be fantastic chromatic spots on the grayish
brown watercolour. When we are alone we slip off into the past
as into a bathrobe. How softly it clings to us. In a glitter
of gold it rises above us, as in the morning quiet we sip
our coffee and, half asleep, stare at the puzzled chairs
which are carefully placing their legs on the new floor.
3
From behind the curtain we peek at the stage of the city
preparing for the work day. The noise of a tin caterpillar
reverberates as it creeps from the suburbs into the glare of
the centre, where a baroque garden fixes its clipped haircut
in a mirror of thin ice, ready for the cameras of countless
guests who are still dozing in hotel rooms. In foreign languages
they dream about croissants being thrown by knights
from the castle wall into the orchestra pit.
When we enter the street scene we accept everything
that falls into our arms—the flags on the tips of umbrellas
from Asian tour guides, the blind stare of a putto,
the fast walk of a rural costume, and expose our face
to the cold air, so our eyes start to weep and above the river
appears a rainbow of doves, notes and white periwigs.
We use cookies to analyze our traffic. Please decide if you are willing to accept cookies from our website. You can change this setting anytime in Privacy Settings.