Journal

Journal

Journal
Return from Guard Duty
The Mist
Pascal’s Theorem
A note (my whole life)
Trench No. 3
Sourness

First a blast was heard
Then, a long stretched whistle
while I am counting nineteen on my fingers;
each finer – one year.
Then a roaring thundering blow
against the walls of my house.

From the ruins I will build a new one
but I will never be complete:

dispersed in small pieces of iron,
united in the dust with the crashed walls,
on which, of me,
remained only – holes.

AuthorAsmir Kujović
2018-08-21T17:23:28+00:00 September 1st, 2003|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 34|0 Comments