Poem
Sibila Petlevski
Show Me
Show exactly which way the lava had passed or at leastpoint with your hand at the direction so that this place like
all the places on which things happen would not suddenly
start to remind us of a partition that the snails had cleared
in the leafs. Time makes miracles: it reduces the effect
of reality and not only volcanoes extinguish in the cataclysms
of indifference. It would be wrong to call the endless chain
of replacements of everything with everything oblivion. We are
not guilty. Eagles spread their wings like flags. Their nature wins:
it divides the space into the plots of power and with each take off
it pierces the indigo of the dusk, with each flight over the frame of
densely compressed mountains it lets you know that behind the
picture the night is swallowing there is another sky smeared with the
colors of the liver. The fear of crucified gods lets out the smell of
urine and blood, while hunger doesn’t ask: What’s the matter with
you? Haven’t woken up yet? Aren’t you ill perhaps? Get up!
© Translation: 2004, Miljenko Kovačiček
Pokaži
Pokaži
Pokaži točno kojim je putem prošla lava ili baremrukom ukaži na pravac da ne bi i ovo mjesto kao
sva mjesta na kojima se događaju stvari iznenada
počelo podsjećati na razdjeljak kojeg su puževi
iskrčili u lišću. Vrijeme čini čuda: umanjuje učinak
stvarnosti i ne gase se samo vulkani u kataklizmama
ravnodušja. Bilo bi pogrešno nazvati zaboravom
beskonačni lanac zamjena svega svime. Nismo krivi.
Orlovi razvijaju krila kao zastave. Njihova priroda
pobjeđuje: dijeli prostor na parcele moći i svakim
uzletom buši indigo sumraka, svakim nadlijetanjem
okvira od gusto stisnutih planina daje na znanje
da iza te slike koju guta noć postoji još jedno nebo
razmazano bojama jetre. Strah razapetih bogova
ispušta miris urina i krvi, a glad ne pita: Što ti je?
Nisi se probudio? Da nisi možda bolestan? Ustani!
© 2004, Sibila Petlevski
From: Passwords Of Oblivion
Publisher: Unpublished manuscript,
From: Passwords Of Oblivion
Publisher: Unpublished manuscript,
Poems
Poems of Sibila Petlevski
Close
Show Me
Show exactly which way the lava had passed or at leastpoint with your hand at the direction so that this place like
all the places on which things happen would not suddenly
start to remind us of a partition that the snails had cleared
in the leafs. Time makes miracles: it reduces the effect
of reality and not only volcanoes extinguish in the cataclysms
of indifference. It would be wrong to call the endless chain
of replacements of everything with everything oblivion. We are
not guilty. Eagles spread their wings like flags. Their nature wins:
it divides the space into the plots of power and with each take off
it pierces the indigo of the dusk, with each flight over the frame of
densely compressed mountains it lets you know that behind the
picture the night is swallowing there is another sky smeared with the
colors of the liver. The fear of crucified gods lets out the smell of
urine and blood, while hunger doesn’t ask: What’s the matter with
you? Haven’t woken up yet? Aren’t you ill perhaps? Get up!
© 2004, Miljenko Kovačiček
From: Passwords Of Oblivion
From: Passwords Of Oblivion
Show Me
Show exactly which way the lava had passed or at leastpoint with your hand at the direction so that this place like
all the places on which things happen would not suddenly
start to remind us of a partition that the snails had cleared
in the leafs. Time makes miracles: it reduces the effect
of reality and not only volcanoes extinguish in the cataclysms
of indifference. It would be wrong to call the endless chain
of replacements of everything with everything oblivion. We are
not guilty. Eagles spread their wings like flags. Their nature wins:
it divides the space into the plots of power and with each take off
it pierces the indigo of the dusk, with each flight over the frame of
densely compressed mountains it lets you know that behind the
picture the night is swallowing there is another sky smeared with the
colors of the liver. The fear of crucified gods lets out the smell of
urine and blood, while hunger doesn’t ask: What’s the matter with
you? Haven’t woken up yet? Aren’t you ill perhaps? Get up!
© 2004, Miljenko Kovačiček
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