Face to Face

Face to Face

Useless Gifts
On the Usefulness of Music
Snow in your Shoes
Beautiful Dead Seas
Face to Face
Spring Trade

Some little bird
spoke two, three words
and shat on the terrace, ashine with sun.

So this little bird,
still a matchbox
that outgrew its wingspan.
His eyes only half phosphoric grains.

From the small shit
grew a four-leaf

our luck speaks in an animal language
and in the language of good digestion,
outdoing its causes
and not choosing the spot where I would land.

It must keep quiet, truly:
if he mentions
the sun above us,
it changes
into golden gallows.

Translated by: Brian Henry

2018-08-21T17:22:52+00:00 August 1st, 2011|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 77-79|0 Comments