In somebody’s notebook
that day will be marked
with a pencil.
Neatly packed grey fibre will fade gathering dust.
The cupboard will open with faded brown coats,
beekeeping suit, clothes for different occasions;
the pitch black umbrella will spread.
Red wine will refract light
creating a red rose on the wall,
in the late afternoon.
Honey jars will remain filled with shades of pine forest.
Yellowish stone will press bound books,
like silence does with hours.
The night lamp will radiate blueness
below the picture of Mother in silver,
draped in that blue.
Life will still have the same hue,
genetic structure
continuously combining.
Translated by Ivana Maksić
[print-me]
