ON THE WALLS OF THIS MORNING

We are of this earth which despite
The April rains that breath freshly and falls
Into its bosom, has lost its fragrance.

On the wall of this morning,
And on the walls of this newspaper – nothing written
About us
Our hearts are refugees.

Apart from rare ordinary thoughts
Within sad and great silence
And meaningless words which grow
From the trunk
You’ll find nothing.

Forest nights without light or sign unite us
Adopt us darkly
Frozen through with waiting are our shores.

Let love anchor us so that these morning
Be not broken from out breasts.

Let these great words in which have faith hold
Freedom, Law, Humanity, Man, Love
Let them hold without our voices for
Our hearts are refugees,
And within them no truth dawns
And no happiness lives.

Our lives unite the time
On all the shores of the earth our
Blood flows concentrically
And blood sets on death
Word by word
Ploughs us.

So many eyes have I seen in which
The light has died
The sun no longer sparks in them
And don’t you talk to me about which fogs
Have drunk our sight
And don’t lead me any more like a hound to blood
Because, there are still enough holy,
Ordinary sights
Because, I return…

And I leave those doors are greying walls behind me
On them the same shadows shall
Enslave the light
At the same time
No wounds exist
No God exists.

My hungry blood rabidly turns the decomposed
Meat of this routine time: searching
I am nobody’s
And incurably time frays
This rainy afternoon is too strong…
Memories leave these lips, known
Of only a few loves, dumb.

And to the sky sprays my blood
By heart.

In my dreams, birds nest in my soul
Dead birds of dream.

But

I returned to this earth which,
Despite the April rains that fall and
Breathe freshly into its bosom,
Has lost its fragrance
And am only afraid that it
Shall find my palms rusted
And on the walls of that morning
And on the walls of the newspaper
Nothing will there be about us
Save a few traces of the
Passing of ordinary hours

Milos Manojlovic
1999