Later

In poems it always looks different.
When I read sentences written by others,
everything seems clear and easy.
Like a sheet of paper which still resists fire,
which hardly feels the signs of ash
on it. In my yard
ash is so comprehensive.
Like an illusion, like a picture that inspires.


Many write about lost beauty,
about misfortune that comes suddenly and creeps
into a silent, abandoned heart.
However, I would like to say something
about my yard and about the big river
which you should see from the window.
About an ash-tree and two lime-trees which
disappeared the other day.


The mechanism of the fairy-tale has suddenly become
completely inconceivable to me.
The ash that falls from the window,
that black soot that only yesterday
used to be a table, a bed or books,
somebody’s life about which nobody thought very much,
that is stuck in my throat and blurring my sight.
When I wave with my hand,
will I still be able to feel anything?

poslije

poslije

U pjesmama to uvijek izgleda drugacije.
Kada citam recenice koje drugi pišu,
sve mi se cini jasnim i laganim.
Kao list papira koji još odolijeva vatri,
koji jedva da osjeca znakove pepela
na sebi. U mojem dvorištu
pepeo je tako sveobuhvatan.
Poput varke, poput slike koja ushicuje.


Mnogi pišu o izgubljenoj ljepoti,
o nesreci koja dolazi iznenada i uvlaci se
u neko tiho, napušteno srce.
Želio bih, medutim, nešto reci
o svojem dvorištu i velikoj rijeci
koja bi se trebala vidjeti s prozora.
O jasenu i dvjema lipama kojih
od neki dan više nema.


Mehanizam bajke postao mi je odjednom
sasvim nedokuciv.
Onaj pepeo koji se osipa s prozora,
ona crna cad koja je još jucer
bila stol, krevet ili knjige,
neciji život o kojemu se nije mnogo razmišljalo,
to mi stoji u grlu i zamagljuje vidik.
Kada zamahnem rukom,
hocu li još išta moci osjetiti?