to go from this love like from the grave
desire as if she said and leave the story
his world of internal edifices
thought up from the ruins from sickness
is a crazed tectonics of no meaning
in the new novel of the gentle friend
in the pale-lit northern night of fear
in the silence of a hotel room
vilniuskaunas sounds a good symbiosis
and call the area code of time
that feeds on the lives of nameless
in the angst of the divine order
presentiment of wholly lethal grace
from the grave soar to love from the ruin
as if he had said desire and motionless sunk
deep down there buried with his own
the new little oval picture is a new eye
on the frigid face of homescape marble
over the treetops just an unhistoric cloud
or a flock of curious young songbirds
foggy February at Štinjan graveyard
(Graham McMaster, “The Bridge”, Zagreb, 2004.)