SUMMER

We are not of that kind. This is not what the January wind whispered about. Too many
goggle eyes flocked together at midday without shadows, in the core of ripeness that
grows luxuriant, who can still remember the humility of a grain of seed, the silent secret
of the very beginning of that journey. Mad is (stronger! more!) the clamor of all things
and there is no innocence in the hot heart of a stone or a blade of grass. I cannot recall
your face.
(Scattered pieces of the night, black sediments of the day. Hate discovered in my throat is
more repulsive than yesterday’s envy. If I say: I cannot recall your face, and this is only a
verse from someone else’s poem, then even that face that I have forgotten is no longer yours.)

LJETO

LJETO

Nismo mi od tih. Nije to ono o cemu je sumila sijecanjska bura. odvise razrogacenih
ociju vrvi ovim podnevom bez sjene; sred zrelosti sto razmetljivo buja, tko jos pamti
sjemenkinu smjernost, tihu tajnu otpocetog puta. Mahnita je (jace! vise !) vika sviju stvari
i nema nevinosti u vrelom srcu kamena i travke. ne mogu se sjetiti tvog lica.
(Rasuti komadici noci, crni talog dana. mrznja koju otkrivam u grlu ruznija je nego
jucerasnja zavist. Ako kazem: ne mogu se sjetiti tvog lica, i to je tek stih iz tudje pjesme,
cak ni lice koje sam zaboravio nije vise tvoje.)