this afternoon at one I play
I unfold my legs, hands, cervical vertebrae
then I pull out a soul blade from the soil in my belly
twirling it between my fingers
the instrument is old and screeching
like those old oaks in the forest that will thump down
as soon as some shorthair little animal scurries across
an old person’s fingers
down into the abyss of the forest deafness
the room is getting dark
B-minor scale covers the walls and ceiling
with its jagged crust
as the eyes return to the depth
where they first sprouted from
so they may continue reading in peace that diary
written out in the music humus by the nails of cold rain
Translated by Damir Šodan and Majda Bakočević
EN 
MK