Slovenian Rimbaud

Recently I picked up a volume of poems by Srecko Kosovel, billed as a Slovenian Rimbaud - this on account of having died at the age of 22 and gaining notoriety only much later. (Rimbaud didn't die that young, but one could say he died a 'poetic' death inasmuch as he stopped writing at 19, although he lived another 20 years or so after that).

Here is one piece I quite liked, from The Golden Boat: Selected Poems of Srecko Kosovel.

I am

I am, and I'm not asking why;
my word is that I am here,
silently growing into this silent place
as if I were growing from peace.

Beyond the huts, the fields, beyond the gardens,
as if dreams were shining on them,
behind the narrow paths, the fences,
across the meadows stretches a restful silence.

I am, and I am not asking why,
with the huts, the fields, the gardens,
this place is like a sleeping lake
untroubled by waves.