Poetry

What am I searching for? For freedom in the morning air, for happiness in a starry trail, for a small bundle of sky that fits in the palm of my hand.

I am not here to keep the silence of our glances. I have fed my dreams with distances; it was not tears that startled me, but silences that speak aloud...

When the mercy of God visits us, fear disappears, every vice is in vain, love and grace are all around us. When the Lord’s blessing is poured over the dark provinces of our soul, every particle of our heart revives, all grows and blossoms, life renews itself. Life is lived again from the beginning. Do not dream; it is lovelier to be silent together.

Poets, my son, are time-worn souls who walk the border between waking and dream, visiting even the circles of hell; wanderers, devotees at the gates of paradise. These, my son, are souls that live forever! A quiet harbour of goodness and honour, mother of all tears, comfort to the weary, hope to the forgotten, a bridge of rescue for the lost, matins with the angels, a prayer of healing, that is poetry.

Had the moment lasted forever, we would still be taming the dark, no shadows would carry off our youth, no instant would have stolen you from us. Sleep, boy, sleeping warrior, drowsy eyes still speak for you... Now the swollen rivers of our childhood are miles both near and far away. Forgiven be the years behind us, the unrest woven through children’s games, while curled-up tears can feel broken hearts still living... there, where you are, all borders fade.

Weave me, my soul, a blouse of dreams from matins on the heavenly mountains; weave me, my soul, from your tendernesses a road into the boundless. That I may never lose my way; or when, weary and dreamless, I long to leave, be my castle and the warm air from the sea, the north star in the night, the fragrant incense of Hilandar, so I may dream awake with drowsy eyes. Weave me, my soul, a necklace, the loveliest, of pearl and pure amber, that in the pitch-deep day there may shine your love upon my palm.

Last night the stars wove themselves into my sister’s hair. I knew it was her; I dreamed of the Trebišnjica. I watch from Leotar, and she, in all her stature, winds through the capital, for centuries.. Clear and bright, dark green, like my sister’s eyes. Mine are distant and restless; quiet and wise, the eternities of my childhood. A relentless tear rises from the ashes; it hurts the more the more one dreams, with a tear the stone is kissed, and from it the loveliest flower breaks forth.

Night. In my hometown the shadows flutter. As once the sky burns with dusk and fiercely longs to buy back time. The evening smells of incense, and words are washed with peace, a warm whisper from the icon of my dear Three-Handed Mother, the little Mother of Ljeviška. Do not ask me, my dear, how long time lasts, or what stirs in the depths of my universe; all is lonely and restless in the soul. The heart is such: it does not speak, yet breathes; a small flame that flares, kindling into fire. Who but a mother calls me so, through night and tears blessing me endlessly, without fear, from a distant stone, without a tear, without a name.

Turned toward one another, in all of time. Our souls are made of the energy of light, pure and radiant, stronger together. We last longer and shine brighter through every darkness and every evil age. Like sunflowers that lean toward the light of the sun and at evening bow their heads toward one another, in a whisper.. through the long night they give each other the light of the sun.

Drunken soul, leave me a while, so I may grow wings, so I may cry aloud: Do not leave me below, for I exist above, I am an eternal shadow, made of dreams.

Something pulls me somewhere far away, somewhere no one has ever reached, somewhere there is another side, perhaps within, right here in us..