How many scars you have, I can’t even begin to imagine.
Again they told you your father is dead.
Is that a good or a bad news?
Not so long ago, from the “caesarean” cut
on your hand, a freak king was born
mourning your loneliness at night when he festers
like a rotten watermelon forgotten on the table,
like an abandoned PHD thesis
on languages that betray you
the more that you study and master them,
about the everyday life that offers little and false.
”Good guys and ideals have been buried”, you say.
”I am terribly uneven”.
There’s lime in your every word,
a deadly cream you’re offering to me and the world,
the solidarity with evil that keeps you alive
incessantly returning you to the beginning,
to a new birth out of the scar.
Translated by Damir Šodan