Summer Is Not Sacred

you relentlessly wanted everything to happen this summer.  
we should convert and pray to the colors.  
but, for me summer is not sacral.  
it’s true that all year long proselyte painters  
are hatching beneath my vertebrae  
but they waited for the spring storm to gather and emerge.  
I begged you: freeze all your senses until the next spring!  
at the dawn of the equinox the blood of allegiance will gush from our nostrils
and we will become the owners of Bethlehem’s attics
with the stable of yellow-blue winged mares.  
you couldn’t wait. at the summer solstice you curiously glanced  
into the rowdy grey suspicion of my words.
disappointed,  
before leaving the last thing you saw  
was a drunken pilgrim throwing a match onto the hay
and me with an apron, broom and blackened lips
clearing up those scorched Bethlehem ruins.

Ljeto nije sakralno

Ljeto nije sakralno

navaljivala si da nam se sve desi ovog ljeta.
da se preobratimo i molimo bojama.
ali, meni ljeto nije sakralno.
istina, pod mojim pršljenovima legu se
slikari prozeliti cijele godine,
ali tek pred proljetnu oluju grupiraju se i izlaze.
molila sam te: zaledi sva čula do idućeg proljeća!
u cik ekvinocija iz naših će nosnica brinuti krv saveza
i postat ćemo vlasnice betlehemskih tavana
s ergelom žudomodrih krilatih kobila.
nisi izdržala. na ljetni solsticij znatiželjno si zavirila
u nered sive sumnje u mojim riječima.
razočarana,
posljednje što si vidjela prije odlaska
bilo je kako pijani hodočasnik baca zapaljenu šibicu na slamu
i kako ja s pregačom, metlom i crnim usnama
raščišćavam to betlehemsko zgarište.