Blesok no. 67-68, July-October, 2009
Тranslated by the author and Miljenko Kovačićek
In case there is more than one eternity, she has
made use of all of them in order to cover the
distance of a single foot. The fact that she is
approaching does not mean she is ready to leave
any of the stages of the road she is walking along.
She never goes step by step; when she makes
progress there is not a piece of land left behind.
I say to her in desperation: it is impossible to put up
a cross for you. If one day there would be someone
capable of describing your Calvary, that person
will have to describe a circle and that would be
wrong as anything else. For shame! It’s hard for me
to keep pace with her. She knows that, and that’s
why she gives me a chance to stay where I am. I stay
the course for her. I bloom on the high mountain and
I don’t care under which Sun midnight heats me up.
Such Is the Age
Wherever you come you keep on
repeating in the times of defeat and
illness the poison become the cure.
Look: that man over there who jumps
through the shut window does not
give up in the same way as me and
you. Our illnesses have different
names. We have nothing in common
except failure, perhaps. While I rip
the seams, you take your knife out.
While you cut, I give my hand to the dog
to bite and my hand is not accepted. Even
snakes refuse to attack. There is no cure
in the snake for us any more but that
does not give us enough reason to kill. It is
not that we are incurable. Such is the age.
Next Time Turn Your Back on Them
the wall we leaned to is a thin one; as if it was
made of cardboard. even for the smallest child
and a hundred years old grandpa it would be
a cinch to make a hole in it with a shaky fist.
they are tracking us. small eyes neatly arranged
in the firing squad. tracking us again. pointing and
reloading. it would be a lie to say it does not hit
you. it hits me too. at the chest. it sets my heart free.
you shoot up alone setting your thoughts free; one
by one. it hits you. a great view opens through the hole
on your forehead. we are full of holes. our holes are
full of hope, their hope, and we are their heroes. man!
we’ve been used again. tiny eyes neatly arranged
in the firing squad are now looking through us, saluting.
it’s too late now, when it has finally dawned on us
that one needs a lot of courage even for defeat.
The Pleasure of Disappearing
It is not good to leave eggshells open to the view.
There is always someone who wants to take
advantage of your weakness. After the contents
was eaten, regret disappears without trace: sometimes
it remains for a short while at the back of the tongue
and then you feel the taste of the raw quail egg
before it is gone forever. Consolation is always
close at hand, or even closer than that, somewhere
in the body for which we mistakenly think that we
know it because it belongs to us. Our love that holds
the name of love is, in point of fact, one of many
imaginable forms of fervent compassion that
had slipped too deep down the throat and now
do not know how to get out. There is no such pain
that could not be completely dissolved in the mouth.
This is called the pleasure of disappearing.
Close At Hand
I can recall everything: the river going with me,
you guys staying, shaking water off your fur
like beavers. You have remained surprised
until the very end, stranded, shoulder to shoulder,
protecting your little dams built for private needs.
Much ado about nothing: the river simply decided
to go. It was horrible to watch the entire nature,
including those things that usually follow beaten
paths, suddenly starting to show their own will
and – for no reason and in no reaction to anything –
coming to a decision that will soon become our destiny.
It was hard to believe that one thin sickle could ever
reap the night to the very last inch of darkness,
thick hairy darkness that fills in the space between
you and me, you and all the objectives we had missed
yesterday, only to have them close at hand tomorrow.
That god protects his flock. Another god protects
something else. It is nice to belong to somebody,
to be loved, to be a piece of running meat, simply
to be: to leave the empty yellow placenta on the old
sod, as if you were leaving a ball between two stones
after a play, and to be a sacred sheep among other
sacred sheep, and just run off, run off stupidly, not
knowing that all those who have inhaled the smell of
the womb from which the lamb has just gone out will
die from the fever. They will die? So what? The entire
island will sunk in time under the weight of a thousand
years of flow without ebb. The world will finally reach
the bottom line and there would luckily never be another
shore emerging from the sea to receive our messages
in the bottle; crude messages devoid of any secret:
hunks of happy meat in store for the years of hunger.
Bells are in vain. In vain is the sound moving
to and fro inside the tube. To see that sound
would be like watching people who believe
in the outlines of bodies while they wrap up
a long white ribbon around the invisible man
for as long as it gets threadbare. No, bodies do
not exist. Those who believe in them do not exist
either. The contact with emptiness induces
discharge comparable to the discharge of electrostatic
field on a gray screen crisscrossed with a network
of blue bolts. The old men observe the interface
as if it was sky and make crosses on their foreheads
with thumbs. Wise old men are right: when there is
no illusion any more every make-believe seems real.
This place is good in spite of being black. It is black
as the black chamber in which any film can develop.