Translation: Sonja Asanovic Todorovic
APHRODITE OF FREEDOM OF THE XXI CENTURY
Your stature bombards the pausing of time
Prior to death and life.
Day watches you in different chairs,
And embroiders freedom over
Your pastures and defiances
Which is spread by our ferocity and rage.
And it turns you into a pendant of time and our passions
One housing of all kinds of freedoms.
Your eyes create furious paths
Through whom we passed as night, as a child, as a woman,
As a man, as a naked passion that sums up the self-grown
Traces of life in
Flags of our shattered hope
On the fingers of all kinds of destinies,
On the originations of lonely days,
lined up in fists of our departures.
Your eyes are the freedom of multiple strings
Of our decisions,
Time exported in the dialect of steep departures
Trifles, rages and desires
In our infinity of decisions,
In the crust of our presence,
gnawed like a century
With the stars of some future longings.
From your hands,
They continue on their way
The child, the man, the woman and our passions,
nurtured in the traps of all tides
of our timeless nights.
And the various liberation armies continue
Your interrupted sentences about blood,
About various destinies which by heart,
recite this planet,
And they turn into a verse of freedom,
And in the torch of reciprocity of us, the sky and the birds.
From your earthy flag,
which waves with the transfiguration of heaven in the blink of man,
Our hours, our minutes, our lives,
Overflow into the thorns of our consciousness of life,
Equal themselves with birds, plants, clover, groves,
With roses, haystacks, rivers, mountains,
Cities and freedom.
A BOY AND A GIRL BY THE RIVER
The river describes the Moon
as a communion of images of their night.
Nature is looking for their traces
within the eyes of the river.
The moon is pouring out into
doublet of their presence.
The night whips the numerous
hugs of the world.
Day reviews the river and the night
with their passion.
WHO ARE WE?
From the absurdity of trifles
squeezed out are the words,
the face of civilization,
the absence of a noon of passion.
From our presence,
the possessions of worldly passions are drained,
a soul which sum up all the exiles,
a resting area for words which flows into the indescribable.
From our closeness,
squeezed are the hands of searching,
hovering memorials,
belts for running for unique
reality which is our heart.
