A Holy Week

We blew the balloons for six whole days,
thought there was no other way one could
frame the breath. Manna was falling from
the sky on our ways, sweet and tepid like milk
from a breast. Oh, God! We could have reached
one hundred percent the same with our kisses,
we could have done it also by breathing onto
the glass, so that fog would write our name
on a clear glass, and say instead of us we are
alive, so that our writing transfers the warmth
without a touch or a sound, and makes it possible
for us to be simply here and not entangled in a net
of blood, not like hungry dogs to be found,
not with forever hungry heart that roars from
our breasts and the lot. We blew the balloons and
then tore them with a knife for six whole days.
On the seventh we took some rest in our life.

Sveti tjedan

Sveti tjedan

Puhali smo balone punih šest dana,
mislili da je to jedini način na koji se može
dati okvir dahu. S neba je padala mana,  
slatka i mlaka kao mlijeko iz sise. Bože!
Pa mogli smo i poljupcima postići istu,
potpuno istu stvar, mogli smo i disanjem  
u staklo, da umjesto nas magla na čistu
zrcalu napiše da smo živi, da pisanjem
prenesemo toplinu bez dodira i glasa,
da budemo jednostavno tu, a ne u mreži  
krvi isprepleteni, ne poput gladnih pasa,
ne vječno gladnog srca koje iz grudi reži.
Puhali smo balone i onda ih nožem parali
punih šest dana. Sedmi smo se odmarali.