Andriana Škunca
Dried Figs
Grains of light in a dried fig, and beebread for autumn’s bitter mouth. An empty cup chimes to a close on the table. Beside it, mint and lemon. A bee snatched at a ray of sun, covered by a cold shadow like a butterfly.
The wall grows dark. The wine is bottled, taste of over-ripened grapes. The figs, plucked long ago, dry on the board. Late summer clings to the moistened fruits. Sweetness glistens.
In the box, between the stems, blackness. Now to add two or three bay leaves to separate the thick clumped fibres, press them in silence.
By Christmas, crystals on the skin. A dusting of sugar. Frost stalks the hands of the clock. It seems that hoarfrost has fallen from the lid, blanched the room, figs and our fingers.
Suhe smokve
Suhe smokve
U suhoj smokvi zrnca svjetla i mliječ za gorka usta jeseni. Prazna šalica odzvanja na stolu. Uz nju metvica i limun. Pčela se uhvatila za zraku sunca, prekrila je hladna sjena nalik leptiru.
Támnī zid. Pretače se vino, kuša prezrelo grožđe. Davno pobrane smokve suše se na dasci. Kasno ljeto lijepi se za ovlažene plodove. Iskri slador.
U kutiji, između peteljki, crnina. Treba dodati dva-tri lovorova lista koji će razdvojiti gustu pređu, sprešati je u šutnji.
Do Božića, po kori, kristali. Šećerna prašina. za kazaljke sata lovi se studen. Čini se, s poklopca palo je inje, zabijelilo sobu, smokve i prste.
From: Predivo sve užih dana
Publisher: Društvo hrvatskih književnika, Zagreb
Dried Figs
Grains of light in a dried fig, and beebread for autumn’s bitter mouth. An empty cup chimes to a close on the table. Beside it, mint and lemon. A bee snatched at a ray of sun, covered by a cold shadow like a butterfly.
The wall grows dark. The wine is bottled, taste of over-ripened grapes. The figs, plucked long ago, dry on the board. Late summer clings to the moistened fruits. Sweetness glistens.
In the box, between the stems, blackness. Now to add two or three bay leaves to separate the thick clumped fibres, press them in silence.
By Christmas, crystals on the skin. A dusting of sugar. Frost stalks the hands of the clock. It seems that hoarfrost has fallen from the lid, blanched the room, figs and our fingers.
From: Predivo sve užih dana
Dried Figs
Grains of light in a dried fig, and beebread for autumn’s bitter mouth. An empty cup chimes to a close on the table. Beside it, mint and lemon. A bee snatched at a ray of sun, covered by a cold shadow like a butterfly.
The wall grows dark. The wine is bottled, taste of over-ripened grapes. The figs, plucked long ago, dry on the board. Late summer clings to the moistened fruits. Sweetness glistens.
In the box, between the stems, blackness. Now to add two or three bay leaves to separate the thick clumped fibres, press them in silence.
By Christmas, crystals on the skin. A dusting of sugar. Frost stalks the hands of the clock. It seems that hoarfrost has fallen from the lid, blanched the room, figs and our fingers.
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