In a café pattering with rain
on the embankment in Ljubljana,
against a backdrop of sad tin dragons,
on each side of a wet table,
above raspberry tea and cognac,
me and the Dream Sorcerer,
in the café lashing with rain,
our mouths full of the folktale
of the time when dragons’ scales
were still soft as wine.
And the Dream Sorcerer speaks:
in father’s workroom at night,
when the hour cut the dust and darkness
into turf for the mice,
a crossroads branched off –
the four exits in four walls,
four focused corridors.
Up to your knees in carpet,
the air was made of question marks!
If only you’d gone straight,
straight ahead, your eye still
imagining ivy and monsters
but not making them out.
If only you’d gone straight, straight ahead,
alone into the ebony darkness!
Me and the Dream Sorcerer,
coats ever heavier with water,
in the café pattering with rain
on the embankment in Ljubljana.