A Sparrow Rubbed by a Flute

by    /  October 31, 2009  / No comments

Translated by the author

It comes to me

That I may see what is unseen
In the pleasure of speech,
In the night step
And in the crawling of roses on myrtle.

It comes to me
That I may cross the sea of experience
To the sea of language,
Since the world is transforming the obsession
Into a song and the secret into a color.
This is my soul, approaching
The stranger’s fantasies,
Going far in abstracting the place
Going ahead in taming the time,
Passing with no hope of rescue
From the kings of drowning.

It comes to me
That I prefer the coming up against the leaving
When it is a mistake
To exaggerate in gleaming
And accept to walk
On stagnant water.

I may not do well in the art of living
And I may stumble by light,
Because love is dust that moves
And I have nothing but the invisible guarding me.

To expel my whims
I structured myself
On the extension of a flower
And stretched out my arm
To plant my happiness
On the pores of meaning,
Hey , meaning
What if the victorious sat
Inside an open pocket?
I am qualified to advise you
You who lives
In the navel of the ink
To single out a ray for death,
And I may advise oblivion
Not to escape
Unless the wind peels it
Or the waiting snips its
Visions emerge
From me
And never come back,
Colors emerge too,
Drinking their fog
And rise.
From me…
Surfaces perk on wide beds.

These are my blue voices
And my gardens, wet with intimacy.
These are my rains
And my horse
Is kneeling down
Over the noise,
This is my time,
Time of azure skies
And the speed orbits.
As if
I wanted what he didn’t want,
I wanted my wing and my shadow,
I wanted the map of the lost soul
I wanted my breaking,
I wanted to sing
The eyes of the stars embracing me,
I wanted the propagation of wishes
And the tongues setting free
I wanted…
Tomorrow, in a morning like this

Miloš Djurdjević

Mulligatawny Dreams
Meena Kandasamy

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