Par |2019-02-21T11:40:56+00:00 23 décembre 2012|Catégories : Blog|


Our old monk drop­ped in to buy shoe­laces,
salt, metal nails for a large woo­den table,
salad vine­gar ;
but­tons for his waist­coat,
cloth for a calotte and a coat
dark silk for pocket
Rubber boots.

He car­ried his lea­ther bag,
crea­sed and dama­ged on some road,
a long belt cros­sed his chest
glos­sing in that posi­tion.

Apples with thick, rough skin
lay at the bot­tom of his bag.
Documents, on mar­riages,
On deaths, births.

He was pro­tec­ted by a swea­ter with tiny black braids
woven during a long vigil.

Long walk to his cham­bers awai­ted
through the woods, silence, tran­qui­li­ty.

Smoke from the chim­ney went up in the air.
Clear and sun­ny
wea­ther from tomor­row.

Warm room in a small forest house
was rea­dy,
with kind­ling of a stove fire.


Translated by Ivana Maksić