THE DEPTH

So close

in the morning

with the known path.

Where there

are no mountains

where stone turns

into dust.

Where dust

 turns to a vapor

in the mist.

So close

on the trail

shadow

in a black coat.

MALO LI JE

(Pesma za nikog i za svakog)


Oteli ste mi ognjište,
kuću i baštu,
višnje u cvetu
i stari orah,
grobove
da na njima ni slova
ne prepoznam.

U mom krevetu,
na jastuku spavate,
snivate krvave božure,
pokriveni mojim ćilimima
što ih je majka,
kao devojka tkala.

Iz mog putira,
za mojim stolom
ispijate crveno vino,
moju krv,
iz sedam vinograda metohijskih.

U mojim cipelama
gazite niz dečačke pute,
pod starom lipom,
kad najlepše zamiriše.

U mom kaputu odaginjete stud
u prvo predvečerje,
kad puhne povetarac
sa Veternika i Dragodana.

Ej ! Malo li je ?

I pesme ,moje
oteste
u njima stihovi,ravnice
i suncokreti,
žitna polja nepregledna,
sa zalutalim makovima,
kao zvezde na nebu.

Hiljadu i petstotina pesama,
malo li je ?
Zlikovci !

HABIT

Out of habit,

I open the door

of memory

in the old bag are roads.

Visitations, countlessness,

carefully packed

and sorted.

Out of habit,

I unlock the door of north

I walk with light steps,

lighting lanterns,

wick of a thousand centuries.

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.