At the beginning of a run the thoughts are claylike, wooden. Then
Dried under fast breath, they dissipate
Into something, for instance a major fugato that runs behind
And alongside us before finally disappearing.
Runners then crawl in all directions across the forest’s belly just like ants, they slide
Down her legs, jumping over the indents amongst fingers.
In dream, the forest is slowly repositioning through centuries, because
It is being tickled by its wooden core amidst the ancient night.
A wintry morning is its favourite book that she opens with the first snow,
Turning the first white page.
Instead of the title there are people there in small print,
Those early birds.
And in the summer, when trees sing from their roots, giving an idea to the birds by means of leaves,
And insects who had hitherto lived in the huts of alphabet, the forest retreats
As a monk deep beneath the bark of the trees.
The runners than cannot find it in their thoughts and thus blinded
By their heavy breathing they are dash through the desert,
The dried out river bed, the deserted province.
They do not know that the forest had already been lingering inside of them for some time
In their feet
And palms, hoisting up its flag along their necks.
Titmouse moved into its lungs and the leaves of black alder
Are rustling in its ankles.
The runners are already flying like ducks, flapping their wings
With all their might
Only to finally fly out of the forest like a mute explosion:
Out of the book that wrote them they jump out unscathed.
Translated by Damir Šodan