AS A GAME OF BUTTERFLIES

To get back

on the river banks

and then forget

sacred ash

carried away by the wind.

Then when flickers the leaf

and heart

little story from the lips comes out,

when  shadows await

on the coast

a feeling is getting stronger in the bosom.

To get back

among sunflowers

in the minds of the poem

which it came.

Out of the darkness to emerge,

from the drunkenness of old red wine

on the bank of the river,

to see me,

under the tree’s crown shadow will lean on.

In the boat are all memories

When the first wave comes,

a powerful moment as the game of butterflies

remains,

on the bank of the river to get back.

LETTER

(To Mother) from the book, North Road'' in 2008

There, under the wing of the bird,

I hid you

from the barking dogs,

from the long rains,

from memories and storms,

forever in the shadow

of linden and cherry,

between bees and flowers.

There I hid you,

from the tired roads,

from waters and floods ,

from hills and plains,

forever,

from fatigue and waiting.

Under the wing of the bird

I hid you.

 LAST FLIGHT

For Anne Frank

Pain in this night as there is no end

through which tunneled is cry, sob

and a tear fell

on the frozen hand.

These red poppies

in a dead heat they burn, it hurts!

warm sticky drops of blood on the lips

moonbeam peered through the wire,

Story written on an old yellowed paper

attic dream of freedom, it hurts!

Small bird’s broken wing

thwarted in its last flight.

Hurts icy stare into the sky where

it screamed endlessly.

On the steps of decades and centuries,

got lost in the song of birds,

old pictures in your pocket, it hurts!

Memories and vanishing, the vast silence.

                             POSLEDNJI LET

Za Anne Frank

Boli ova noć što kraja nema

kroz koju provučen plač,jecaj

i jedna suza u padu

na promrzli dlan.

Ove crvene bulke

u mrtvoj vatri što gore,bole !

Tople lepljive kapi krvi sa usana,

mesečev zrak kroz žicu provirio,

ispisana priča na starom požutelom papiru,

tavanski san o slobodi, boli !

Slomljeno krilo male ptice

osujećene u svom poslednjem letu.

Boli ledeni pogled u kojem nebo

vrisnulo je u beskraj.

Na stepeništu decenije i vekovi,

zalutali u pesmi ptica,

stare slike u džepu, bole !

Sećanja i nestajanja, nepregledi tišine.

END OF THE BROKEN WILLOW

                           

                           END OF THE BROKEN WILLOW

                                            

                           (Hope)

To you as a gift

handful of stars

in lonely night

barking of stray dogs

the deserted sidewalk.

Grain of dust from my eyes

and breath with raised palms.

A song from the lips

long whisper through the silence

as the gift,

drops of water, to you,

dreams and wings.

In what we will take off

into eternity and beyond ...

And our flowers!

In flaming fire

at the sunset,we will kiss.

Jaglikin venac

JAGLIKIN VENAC

Dugo sam prebivao na vrhu,

na tom mestu,pesnika

blizu oblaka,blizu nedorečenih htenja,

iznad divlje obale,

mnogih brodoloma,slikarevog platna.

Na Jaglikinom vencu

odakle puca pogled

na nepreglednu pučinu.

Tu pored stare vetrenjače

s Van Gogove prelepe slike,

jecala je pod naletom vetrova,

stara vetrenjača.

A ja ?!

Pod njom sam dugo pisao stihove

o morima i valovima,

brodovima što se lagano kreću,

preko vatrenog horizonta,pred zalazak sunca.

Svetioniku,svetlima i boji sa slikarevog kista,

što traga za večitom vatrom.

Dugo sam stihove pisao opijen mirisima pučine

na vrhu,na Jaglikinom vencu.

Dok su galebovi u jatima leteli,

na toplim strujama vetra,

vriskom probijali odjek valova.

Taj osećaj trijumfa je nosio u daljinu,

kao poruka u boci,taj nepokolebljivi osećaj...

dozivao na ponovnost ,stihove ,ptice u letu.

Pesnike i slikare od boja opijenih.

Bird in the bosom

SEĆAŠ LI SE ANDREA

Sećaš li se ulice

kroz koje smo prolazili

u prve predvečerne sate,

pijani od stihova,

koje smo govorili

u kafeu pesnička priča.

Crvenog vina ?

Kao zalaska sunca

na dalekom horizontu.

Andrea sećaš li se?

Dok je stari kapetan

Rolf pripovedao priče

sa daleke pučine.

I ubeđivao da je sever

jedino pravo mesto,

gde bi otpočinuo

posle duge plovidbe,

na kraju svog burnog života.

Zastava i fenjera ?

Pod kojima smo prolazili

u novo jutro, zapućeni,

ohrabreni mirisom kiše

sa uspavane obale.

Valovi svojom penom,

podsećali,

da smo postojani kao ptice.

Na tom mestu...

U knjizi stihova,

između mnogih redova,

mnogih pesama...

Sećaš li se Andrea?

Pijanih dokera,

i vriska galebova,

od kojih smo bežali

smejući se dugo,dugo,

posle toga. Sećaš li se Andrea?