Za danas, samo moja velška balada, tamo san gušta ka’i doma – ter Wales je: ISTRA.

Ča je muore da bi bilo polje...

šija liva, napr’da parada, iša idro, iša bandiru

tomba sidro i spomin na porat.

Zonta sam i dobravoia u puortu Caerdydd;

voga S’ciavo, voga, voga - mala paga, mala paga.

I veslan i veslan za Dužda prisvitlega i Pričistu nan

Serenissimu,

Ma znan da će mi grkljan prisići pirat Saracen,

alžirski bukanir,

eli uskok senjski će mi gut prisići;

and it’s okay you pay and I’ll row for your sake:

I am zonta, I am dobravoia - a Good Will.

replacing Igor; my steering wheel.

A drop of Irish whiskey between the Polish workers at English Luton,

and reading graffiti on the Welsh bridge:

»IS THERE ANYONE«?

»By better – sell more«!

»Croeso buddsoddi yn ein dyfodol«.

And then sipping some Aussie wine in Ceardyyd

with Ffyon, Janis and Jussi

and looking at the window walls through our window

sudenly I see the sea

in the wall windows of the nearby skyscraper

and at the seawallwindowsmirors there where all my ports

and me here staring at me there

talking with an algerian boy without leggs in port of Tunis

smiling to me «Tito-Ben Bela»,

and one boatman in Panama canal smiling again

when a «lister» machine broke and no rows and no sails on boat

folowing with stream the shadows of Kon Tiki,

and one Macedonian docker in Woolongong singing the pečalba-song

about his girl sending him a letter in a jail at bloody turkish Edrene,

and Petar Montan fishermans cook teaching at La Fayette

how to make the best meal - a bread and onion on hot olive oil,

and Sansego island girls at my port of Pula

in a two thousand years rainbow socks

under the mini mini mini frocks:

Reflecting kindly to me all my seamen, whores and docks.

Mi šapće iz špeglja Viktor Vida:

«Ed io vidi come

nell’ spettro lucido

cantavano le cicale».

All my grandfathers glinting in a pier-glass masked

with my rotten face.

My istrian fathers passed in 1943. in Beghazi

from italian navy to british fleet,

sinking down again in a convoy for King George

like there where sinking before,

for Re d’Italia Vittorio Emanuele III on «Zara» at Matapan,

like there fathers sank down on the K. und K. «Viribus Unitis»,

like there grand and grandgrandgrandfathers did

for the Serenissima at Lepanto before them.

All my sank fathers on there ships at the bottom

of CAERDYDD bay,

svi muoji potopljeni oci i didi i prididi i priprididi

me zuovu u špegelj h sebi,

whispering firmly to me in the mirorwalls

of The British gas buillding;

come, my son, come.

I’m coming, I’m coming and joining you down under the blackblue;

come, here’s no tears, it’s all one single tear and you’ll weep no more;

pridi, pridi, pridi sin

tle vsi smo

nič kot ena solza, ena kaplja, eno morje - šepetavo morje Adrijansko.

Ffyon and me searching for sealines,

after Igor and Yussi and Janis where sailing over the hills,

and a cat poorely speaking croatian could not show me the way

to the port just over the dead hedge and gardens;

or it’s some wichcraft, or a course?

Welsh Wizard Idris, cader Idris?

Here’s the Soup street, Heol y cawl,

topoi! logoi!

the archeology of words,

the architecture of faces,

the geography of memorys.

And a Niall Griffits anamnesis;

«a real Wales, a place am fuckin from,

Indyin fuckin reservation in-a-midlle-a Great fuckin Britain like».

If the seas could turn to fealds,

all fair ladys would be diggers,

ča je muore da bi bilo polje

sve bi guospe težakinje bile

po muoru bi naranče sadile;

e no xe per Cicio el caicio,

and it’s not for a Ćić the boat,

nore for a donkey a saddle,

i ni za Ćića barka ni siedlo za tovara:

»Jer, stih se otima, i grize kao bijesno pseto:

O glupane, o analfabeto«, reče Krleža...

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