He goes down the garden towards the exit
and in front of himself he sees
something much broader
than his unborn son.
He is thinking over:
what holds us is unclear -
why are we so easily killed
by the hesitancy of vastness.
Unnoticed we approach the water
- I hear my own steps upon the sand...
Is there any sympathy
for us, except for yours,
Mother Mary?
So great is our idleness
in this illusion which is
a hunt for golden fleece.
On the other side of the Alps...


FEBRUARY 20TH, A MEETING

I waved to you quite by chance, you were crouched
under thin low clouds,
afterwards we silently saw:
the snow is falling on nearby hills -
its melancholy smoke
vaults our spirit. The snow is
so dear
to us who from Podgorica watch
those white and mute peaks,
communicating with them in a language of
lightened inwardness, while
the feeling of beauty is growing,
the beauty that breaks into pieces upon muted wisdom,
and we are catching it, attacked by yearn
for eternity, my dear Vujoševic.


THE RITE

He who betrays me - and someone will -
he will burn in fires forever,
forever he will be running away alone
but he will not escape -
and I will be betrayed by the one
that offers me a bite of food,
that gives me a glass of water -
there is always a Judas at the dinner -
and he will prepare the ropes
and bring over the mighty ones with the poles -
perchance he will bury me too,
but afterwards, mind my word,
he will be running away alone, he will burn in fires,
he will reach the tongues and then
there will be no salvation for him.


AN INSIGHT

A few years ago, until well into winter,
the leaves did not fall - they trembled,
clutching to the frozen branches -
the war was on - the dust was mingling with blood -
in trepidation, in fear and despair,
the leaves hesitated to touch the earth,
which was a sign that the leaves knew
- as well as the waters, as the stones perhaps -
when the evil boiled. The same blood is in everything.
It seems so for sure.
Today it is April, but there is no spring,
which happens quite rarely on these cliffs?
or never. The leaves
languish in blooms, curled
in the subconscious - so far away.
The vine does not grow, cherries do not ripe.
In that I see sinister omens...


EVEN THAT

Before she turned twenty
she took off her golden shirt,
she became older than Eve.
With her dismal soul,
instead of a star in the eye,
she dragged her heart across the stones.
"Follow me", she shouted,
there was no wind
or snake-likeness
in her muscular calves.
The night turned cold.
All of a sudden, I lost that urge
to hurry up and catch her up.
Now I paint what I paint,
throwing away what I am.

Translated by: Zoran Paunović