A WALK
Pantovčak, Pavlinovićeva, Britanac,
Kukuljevićeva, Zelengaj, Tuškanac.
We give the rare passers-by a wide berth,
sometimes with shame,
sometimes with unease.
Dogs are not bothered by our rules,
they greet and smell one another,
not paying attention to the owners.
The canopies on the slopes are half-naked,
as if they cannot decide
between winter and spring.
The trees apart on the foothills,
their hands and the sky interweave.
I measure a pinch of the blue
then break apart a slice,
bring back a souvenir.
On the descent back,
Goljak,
a psychiatric hospital for children and youth.
Yellow, with white bars on the windows.
The colours are fresh and glistening,
like picturebooks glisten,
or a game.
Along the road, the beached bricks
as desiccated words:
plague, leprosy, earthquake, Spinalonga.
I skip them in my throat
and gaze at your face:
on your cheeks, a forest sprouted
and a patch of windflowers.
(Andrijana Kos Lajtman, from the collection The Infectious Zone, collaboration with Damir Radić, Fraktura, Zagreb, 2021)
Translated by Goran Brkić