My Grandma’s Bardo Thödol

up-turned insects claim
that in all Dalmatia
only the melancholic blacksmith died, grandpa Stipan.  
in the old smithy for years they argue about that with the flies,  
while in the fragrant curing shed
the crushed matrimonial light bulbs witness
that since the wedding he casually took off
with knees towards the ceiling
if an eye was not kept on him.  
once, through misfortune, he was stuck in the branches
of a big hornbeam above the house and
from that moment he looked more and more like a blue balloon
with a complicated mechanism in a suitcase near the ground.  
although, in one unbearable dawn,  
granny Ana untied the ropes around his legs
and quickly helped him in the moment of his death
to lick the dust from the arrow of first love.  
an essential ritual so he can fly in the right direction:  
towards the golden pendulums
which god has forged above our village

Bakin Bardo Thödol

Bakin Bardo Thödol

kukci izvrnuti na leđa tvrde
da je u cijeloj Dalmaciji
umro samo sjetni kovač, dida Stipan.
u staroj kovačnici godinama se prepiru o tom s muhama,
dok u mirisnoj sušari
izdrobljene bračne žarulje svjedoče
da je od vjenčanja lako uzlijetao
koljenima prema stropu
ako se na nj ne bi dobro pazilo.
jednom je tako, nasreću, zapeo u granju
velikog graba povrh kuće i
od tad je sve više sličio modrom balonu
s kompliciranim mehanizmom u kovčegu pri tlu.
ipak, u jednu nepodnošljivu zoru,
baka Ana odvezala mu je užad s nogu
i žurno mu pomogla da u času smrti
lizne prašinu sa strijele prve ljubavi.
nužan obred da bi poletio u pravom smjeru:
prema zlatnim klatnima
koje je bog iznad našeg sela iskovao.