What Books Smell Like

/, Blesok no. 37/What Books Smell Like

What Books Smell Like

On the International Route Munich – Salonika
The Shipwreck"s Mirror
On Oblivion
Lost Manuscripts
What Books Smell Like


It is the same on the other side of the road, you think.
It is same there, on the open sea
where you once thought that life
had proximity. But this you will never feel so
as you will never know
the invisible breadth of Middle Europe
or any twillight on the Eastern coast.
Everywhere in the world it is invariably
the same – there where lives are brought to an end.
Every morning seems yours – unhappy
participation in life. And every end
of the day is the same, as when you dive into sleep:
your not in the least glorious death.
And here you are just temporarily – in the world.


You’re going from one place to another,
but, in truth, you’re not really going anywhere. Your current
state you know not how to name.
(Pitful these things emptied of naming!)
You discover no lands, encounter no new worlds,
even the existing you do not use as you would wish.
Increasingly, the days seem like woman’s idleness.
As this is story that has already been told,
and as all stories – so once you heard or suspect –
are just the same, once again you force yourself
into a corner, not finding a way to tear yorself
from the world. Sadness is the signification of your existence,
sole thing to separate you from others. At least
with it to cheat reality, your reality
told so many times before. Thus, you’ll be going from one
place to another, but, in truth, you’re not going to go anywhere.


In this night contained are all your nights
all your being similar to a random
order of hours, months, years. Time lost forever
is hard to mourn.
To extinguish life persistently – obviosly somewhat easier.
Once long ago you at least believed in some illusion
burned for some poem or woman. Today
even more distant seems that era. Now you are just
in another episode that, so it would seem,
has lasted for years. In another daily act of life’s termination.
Your every action is already foreseen.
In vain also that this sadness
is the nearly the same on all meridians, courts
and dens. Because – you are nowhere!
You have only invisibly risen from your solitude.
It was a moment, it was life.

Translated by Nikolai Jeffs

AuthorPavle Goranović
2018-08-21T17:23:25+00:00 July 1st, 2004|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 37|0 Comments