How long will I trav­el through this body,
how many more white and how many blue des­tinies will I under­go,
how many ban­dages, how much gauze,
how much of the ster­ile God?
How much longer will I go on being wrapped
in shells, in com­pas­sion?
My soul yearns to lift like fog,
but cor­ri­dors have mem­o­ry,
under glass
they have seen me
and are now trans­form­ing me
into the north­ern lights, into crys­tal, into health.
No, noth­ing anatom­i­cal, noth­ing per­son­al
— I do not need a name in heav­en -
I want­ed some­thing large, some­thing clas­si­cal,
I want­ed plaques, I want­ed ele­phants, I want­ed ostrich­es with­out limit.

The spir­it is leav­ing the mir­ror.
At the bot­tom of my blood sphin­x­es await me.
The sur­round­ing mois­ture offers its ego to me.
The mind comes from the sea,
as damp as mad­ness.
At the bot­tom of the mind eyes await me
and onyx sight.
Beyond the dark mad­ness begins.
Mad­ness? From how many minds,
from how much ice, from how much fire,
from how many seas, from whose skin ?

 

[trans­lat­ed from ser­bian to eng­lish by her­self]
 

[print-me]