On her eyelashes dust had gathered
A view of clarity obscured by the background to my story
One whole loose load of a funny life lived
My life of indications scattered across the rocks
The ancient homeland echoes with children’s voices
In a worriless departure for nightly rest, As a vow to the sea
Groans the emptiness of sunset, groan the insides of bodies
All essential clashes in one moment only
In this here as we have it as it oozes salty
Along trembling fingers the empty Quarnero sea, the Sea
Rising in dust to the walls of a little church clothed
In whiteness like a resting ground for Mexican libertarians
That will be shot by a wordless uninvited
Someone in a foreign land with a foreign tongue, In himself
Foreign and empty erasing faces with the final bullet
That which equalizes places and fates
That wraps all in the dust of forgetting, In dust
And ash that remains on one, One hair of mine
Of her eyelashes turned towards the colours of the night
Quarnero awakened by a little flame that is disappearing
As our bodies are in the deathly icy, waxed water
(Nikolai Jeffs, “Vilenica”, Slovenia, 2003.)