by Vinko Kalinić
I can not write anything tonight.
As the moon and the stars and the whole sky
on this night are nothing else
but cosmic panthomimes
from an unsuccessful magician’s trick,
sarcastic graphic signs of our civilisation,
from which is imposible to read anything
about perspectives of the mute universe.
And the Earth,
dry as a gunpowder,
on this night,
is standing still.
Like a dot.
Like a big black holl
in which i’m laying belayed
- redundant and final!
- like before, full of unrestrained sense,
on the glade
of your navel.
I will never climb up to the tip of your nose,
neither will I jump from one eyelash to another.
I will never again be bathed by the look
which used to wake up all of my fairy tales.
No mornings will ever risen totally inocent,
without blury memory.
Some wind has taken away even the last part of you,
and nothing of me has remained at all.
I will never be
in just one single touch reborn again,
and rocked away in the cradle of your lips.
The hart is hopelessly following the clock.
There are no us.
I can’ t hear your voice,
or your blood throbbing.
Not even there where things lay dead
we haven’ t left not even our grave behind.
Not even our bones.
What has left was only some empty eternity:
mute and lingering existance.
Only dead letters,
only empty words.
Scatered thoughts float, humid steam flashing
over the clifs of precipitated dreams.
Piles of petrified sensoring shells
echoing and yawning like destroyed city walls.
This night is blind.
This night is mute.
This night the poetry is dead.
Tonight all that is alive
- is hollow as an abyss.
(Translated into English
Darko Kotevski, Melbourne, Australia)
Last updated September 19, 2011