Old People May Die Younger Poem by Primož Čučnik

Does it mean for you what it means for me,
this air I breathe and/or water I drink
and/or language I speak and so on?
I walked through the forest, saw fern and blossoming
blueberries, the same forest you once
walked through, too, probably noticing these
notched logged trunks, moss in the right direction.
Try to speak my language was my suggestion
to everyone I met. Truth is, they weren't many;
on broken pavements I only touched a few branches.
I was light and thin, practically a leaf, feeling practically
watered down, a practically messed-up puff ball,
a different nature. Without an expounded meaning,
without warning. Weird content on your
forehead, soap-bubble smiles on lips,
ramshackle hayracks and granaries full of juggling equipment,
your trade. In this puzzled traffic it's better
to stay young, in other people's eyes and in your enchanted
forest. With other people's eyes, in a different nature
that sometimes lets you get close, but then runs
in the opposite direction, where you choose these words
in a quiet room, quiet until they're spoken
and/or played on an evaporated violin,
the twitching of bitter strings.

Translated by A. Pepelnik and W. Martin