So much ash in the heart, r, e, t, a, h

So much ash in the heart, r, e, t, a, h
And fire with its flames burns in vain.
Something to be happy about. Sooner or later
we will be exactly like ourselves in poetry.
The individual interrupts fire and he copies
sigh by sigh. The time of the falling text.
Weather is definitely in the letters.
I’m fondling the toll for the bridge, that much I can say.
I don’t want to cry, but I foresee the crying
of the others and it is akin to wrinkling like a smile.
To decide is to pay. Withdraw – you should!
They hurt me in the morning, and my bowl was full of hunters,
and I’m just like an ant looking at works of my friends
and thinking – I think: They gave me kindness to
translate into writing. I don’t need everything.
I’m healthiest when I think about poetry. Writing
is a remnant from departure. So deep is
superficial meaning. I reach for her. That’s right.
Only, the essence of reason equals nothing according to her.
I remember a statement: The so called break from art is here.
This ornamenting of ornaments is even more pathetic
compared to human sleep and letters.

Who knows what it could mean?
And poetry is only a sequence.

So much ash in the heart, r, e, t, a, h

Puno je pepela u srcu, c, r, s, u
A vatra i njene vatre badava gore
Tome se je za veseliti. Bit ćemo
kad tad sasvim nalik sebi u poeziji.
Pojedinac i prekida vatru, pa prepisuje
uzdah po uzdah. Doba je padajućeg teksta.
Definitivno je klima u pismima.
Milujem mostarinu, eto to je za reći.
Čak mi se ne plače, mada predviđam tuđi plač
i srodan je ko bora smiješku. Odlučivanje
je plaćanje. Ustuknuti – treba!
Nudili su mi dopodne, i punu zdjelu lovaca,
a baš sam mrav koji sad pogledava djela prijatelja
i misli, – mislim: Dobio sam dobrotu da je
provedem pisanjem. Što će mi sve.
Najzdraviji sam kad mislim na poeziju. Pisanje
je ostatak samog rastanka. Kako je dubok
površni smisao. Posižem za njom. Točno je to.
Jedino – supstrat razloga po njoj jednak je ničemu.
Sjećam se izjave: Tobožnji odmor od umjetnosti je tu.
To ukrašavanje ukrasa tako je bijedno pored još bjednijeg:
ljudskog spavanja i u slovima.

Tko zna što sve može stići reći?
A poezija je samo nastavak.