Medeni strupi, so tvojih ust napitki,
trenutni čari, minljivi so, brez dvoma.
Užitki krhki, kot srebrna mesečina,
polne čaše, svetloba lune, jih prinese.

Tvoje ustnice, panj sladke so prevare,
zvabijo vase me z vsako žametno besedo.
A želo tvojih je besed, grenak ugriz,
pusti me izsušenega, telo neosvetljeno.

Medeni strup je klic sirene,
zvabi me, da pijem, da okusim padec tvoj.
A v trenutku, ko podležem, vidim,
krhkost tvoje je ljubezni le minljiv pohod.

Zato bom srkal čaj in mislil le o ceni,
kaj z ljubeznijo do tebe sem pridobil.
Za medene strupe, ki se raztopijo v čaju,
pustijo mi grenak okus in žalostno srce, ki je prekleto.



Honeyed poisons, drinks of your mouth,
momentary charms, fleeting without doubt.
Pleasures like moonlight, golden kisses weighed,
fragile as grams, soon lost in the shade.

Your lips, a hive of sweet deceit,
luring me in with each velvet treat.
But the sting of your words, a bitter bite,
leaves me parched and longing for the light.

The honeyed poison, a siren's call,
lures me to drink, to taste your fall.
But the moment I succumb, I see,
the fragility of your love, a fleeting spree.

So I'll sip my tea, and ponder the cost,
of loving you, and the price I've lost.
For honeyed poisons, though sweet at first,
leave a bitter taste, and a heart that's cursed.

Tomaž Jevšenak