Ljubljana, by Rodolfo Häsler (own translation)*
Updated: Feb 4, 2021
He goes through an alley of chipped walls,
nosing around in Austro-Hungarian barracks
he highlights a few phrases in blood gothic,
ostrakon of the urgency: Ich bin stärker als Du, Ich warte auf Dir hier in Laibach.
The city that welcomes him is a claim
and confuses when you wander around.
However, it is not easy to understand, you decide and walk, retrace your steps even more, and move from one country to another, but maybe there lies the novelty, a long roaming that inevitably rips you apart with the claws of the dragon itself.
The colonnade hides the baskets
of cabbages, collards and turnips,
and you get ahead
of its offering,
a craving grows, sautéed cabbage,
a taste sweetened by cumin,
the paprika backstitched with cream.
I can't assert if he keeps rambling around,
the movement of the legs, the buttocks,
the insistent flavor of food, dessert,
Cremeschnitt takes you back to when you were ten, the limit of childhood.
The emotion is short-lived.
Choose one of the bridges, again and again
in both directions, it widens
and it narrows as a victim of indecision
that appears and disappears in the mind
like a firework.
For once you sit and scrutinize
the air, the memory of the newly acquired fruit
in the stalls, an apple,
splendid, fills your heart.
Grandma, in German Switzerland,
drank tea in a Rosenthal porcelain service,
and he ran his fingers every afternoon
on the surface of the cup,
punctual, and carried on the fingertips
the little colorful flowers, until he felt at the table
the taste of the apricot tart
on the auxiliary furniture, a domestic emotion difficult to overcome.
So much weakness, family recipe,
It expands like tears for the past life.
* If the English version is not available, the author of the blog offers her own translation.