Tomaž Pengov - Na daljnem kolodvoru

From the album Rimska cesta (1992)

Na daljnem kolodvoru

Na nekem daljnem kolodvoru,
bedi popotnik s svojo senco,
kot da je gost na čudnem dvoru,
je zgrešil dan, izgubil kadenco.

Ob mizah roj dvorjanov vztraja,
cvet rahlih damic pohajkuje,
samo korak je še do raja,
taka se noč napoveduje.

Kar tam sedi in se sprašuje,
kod bo še hodil, kaj razdajal,
čigav obraz še pričakuje,
s katero vilo bo še rajal.

Zaspal je kot da svet odhaja,
med pripovedke njemu tuje,
vlak je oznanil pot do kraja,
kjer bo še lepše in še huje.

Bilo je dolgo potovanje,
obstal je sredi tihe jase,
ne vedoč, da so ga sanje,
prepletle v večne zvezdne čase.

Prišla je lahka, kot obljuba,
stegnila roko, mehko ptico,
zbudi se in v naročju najde,
le njeno belo rokavico.

Na nekem daljnem kolodvoru,
bedi popotnik s svojo senco,
kot da je gost na čudnem dvoru,
je zgrešil dan, izgubil kadenco.

Pred njim je prazna rokavica,
ne spomni se, kje jo je našel,
morda je laž, morda resnica,
morda pohojena kresnica.



On a distant train station

On some distant train station,
a traveler lays awake with his own shadow,
as if he were but a guest in a strange court,
he missed the day and lost his cadence.

At the tables a swarm of courtiers persists,
a flower of fragile dames wanders,
but a step remains to paradise,
such a night presents itself.

He just sits there wondering,
where he will walk, what he will give away,
who's face he is to expect,
with which fairies he will dance.

He falls asleep as if the world is departing,
towards tales to him unknown,
the train announces the final journey,
to a place more beautiful and even worse.

The journey was long,
now he stands in a silent glade,
without knowing, that his dreams,
wove him into times, starry and eternal.

She came light as a promise,
extended her hand, her bird so soft,
he wakes up and finds in his embrace,
only her white glove.

On some distant train station,
a traveler lays awake with his own shadow,
as if he were but a guest in a strange court,
he missed the day and lost his cadence.

In front of him an empty glove,
he knows not where he found it,
perhaps it is but a lie, perhaps truth itself,
perhaps but a trampled firefly.