All this blinking, gurgling, sweet stinking
decadent soul-racked sorrel,
the love of decanting,
snails put into the mouth, glued to the heart,
stupor of marshland.
Daze of swamps, moisture swollen,
from damp and ardor overcraved soul,
pressed by cognition -
I was not tugged from Ljubljana
like you Virgil, from the province by
Caesar.
I move compactly,
fast, il duca.
Without gloom and vaporizing.
Your bad luck was:
barbarians were outside,
Rome was empty.
My good luck is:
barbarians are inside the skin of America.
I'm a Hittite.
I don't pay because I'm high.

Translation: Thomas Kane and Tomaž Šalamun