Translated by: Manja Maksimovič
How shall I not to be tormented
when I – a middle-aged man – am forced to wait
for my verse to mature
while the world keeps turning into science fiction.
I’m so numb
that I can feel the mobile phone vibrating in my trouser pocket no more.
The box, which at a push of a button
can also serve to entertain,
is vulturously broadcasting the funeral of the President of State.
Viewing figures go up when the camera zooms in on accident-charred bodies,
and the meter goes berserk
when the grieving faces of his wife and children appear on the TV screen.
In another country, an earthquake buries three thousand people.
The weight of casualties of war places them mere third.
The computer animation is scratching its head.
Even if we get saved from bird flu by vegetarianism,
from AIDS by sexual abstinence,
and from SARS by becoming stays-at-home,
we shall not escape one-track-mindedness.
I receive an e-mail,
I hope it’s not virus-infected,
saying that the promised land
has just embargoed the import of literature from so-called non-democratic countries.
Shall I start building my musculature in fitness centres?
Shall I turn into Super, Action or Spider Man,
are you willing to become my Xena
so that together we could save the world?
Is this becoming to a poet?
How much virtual decency this indecent world requires!
I’m not sure whether I should give in,
climb the nearest hill
to watch the freshly fallen snow,
or change the channel instead,
that’s why today, my dearest,
I’m so goddamned depressed.