That last summer before the war
We smoke weed on a terrace above Ohrid
Collapsing from laughter.
We call the waiter by a girly name - "Biljana".
The boy takes it personally
And refuses to show up to take orders.
Weed sometimes helps you
Perceive time as the rippling of water,
A moonlight -- shimmering fish scales in tepid darkness.
But no one is clairvoyant when laughing otherwise
We would have seen corpses gliding towards us out of the bright future,
Floating on similar water, through a similar night.
Dead Tito smiles down at us through the scorched window
Of the restaurant kitchen; our childhood is further
Away than Pleistocene, while the hands of strangers
Have yet to slip on those cotton gloves
To brush off the dry clay
From someone's personal ID.
Meanwhile -- we laugh!
But naturally, laughter knows no clairvoyance
So there was no one there to foresee all that death.
We stop long enough just to pass comment:
What a pity that "Biljana" stopped serving us drinks.
-- translated by Damir Šodan