Šta tece sad
šta tece sad
pomisli rijeka
suznoga oka razjapljen slap
i kuda ide
i koga ceka
s ugaslog oka zapaljena kap
i s cim se miri
i za cim cezne
kad zamre u sjenci korita
i kojem bicu
dok duša grezne
sa mreže dlana misao cita
i koga sanja
i koga voli
i kojem izvoru žurno hrli
s ledom u srži
kada zaboli
mije li sebe
dali me grli
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Related quotes
Did You On That Day When The Sky Cut
Did you on that day when the sky cut
Stood fearfully beyond the earth of Void
A voiceless thought to spill
With the light the lightning when you
Touched the Heights
Did you on that day with the scream in a key
Unlock yourself at the gate of your Brother
Dali si onog dana kada je rasporeno nebo
Stajalo strašno nad zemljom Praznine
Da prospe iz sebe misao bez glasa
Svjetlom munjom spržen kad si
Dotako Visine
Dali si tog dana s urlikom u kljucu
Otključao sebe na kapiji Brata
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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You are an inner sense/Ti si unutrasnje culo
You are an inner sense
that makes everything else disappear
the sign written upon my brow
cannot be placed under fingertips
the touches killed will grow again
in spring out of ground
the fruits of death picked up
dropp the living wounds into young graves
so the grains can cry out your name in tears
elevated by death into heaven
like these dresses of mine lifted by storm
thrown into the clouds
like these dresses of mine by thunder
piled up in rags I am piled into a song
like these dresses of mine burned by lightening
You are a inner sense
That makes everything else disappear
A diamond cutting my dreams
A saphire for the sky to paint
A ruby with which I open the blood
The gold in which I turn the sunflower
The silver in which I throw stars into the night
You are an inner sense
That makes everything else disappear
Ti si unutrasnje culo
Od koga nestaje sve
Na celu ispisan znak
Ne moze stati pod jagodice
Ubijeni dodiri izniknuce
S proljecem iz zemlje
Ubrani plodovi smrti
U mlade gromove zive rane spusti
Da prplace grumenje ime tvoje
Smrcu u nebesa noseno
Ko halje moje olujom
U oblake bacene
Ko halje moje gromom
U pjesmu zguzvana stacu ko krpa
Ko halje moje munjom sprzene
Ti si unutrasnje culo
Od koga nestaje sve
Dijamant kojim sjecem snove
Safir kojim bojim nebo
Rubin kojim otvaram krv
Zlato u kome okrecem suncokret
Srebro kojim zvijezde bacam u noc
Ti si unutrasnje culo
Od koga nestaje sve
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Unwritten Soul
Is the soul of freedom
Doesn’t let be written by a human hand
Is the soul of stardom
It’ll let be written in the Heaven’s land
Is the soul tender passion
Spilling her smiles across the hearth
The soul of compassion
Bathing in her mirth
Is the soul of growth
That will never sink
It’s an open troth
For everyone to drink
An angelic soul
Shining in her shade
Beautiful soul
God blessed and made
Dedicated to Unwritten Soul
Nesipisana Duša
Je duša slobode
Ne da se pisati ljudskom rukom
Je duša zvjezdana
Da se ispisati Nebeskom zemljom
Je duša nježne strasti
Što osmjehe prosipa ognjištem
Je duša saosjeć anja
Što se u veselju kupa
Je duša rasta
Koji nikada ne tone
Je kao otvorene jasle
Sa kojih svi piju
Je anđ eoska duša
Što sija u svojoj sjenci
Prelijepa duša
Bogom stvorena blagoslovena
Posveć eno Neispisanoj Duši
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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a place untouched by a thought (Nafaka)
out of it the tree grows
a mountain will rise with me?
a twilight will sing with me?
through the windows of open restlessness
a piece of sense where will it go
stop the guitars
so that the darkness can sing
the music of sphere
mislju je dotaknuto mjesto iz koga raste drvo nade
hoce li samnom narasti planina
hoce li samnom propjevati sumrak
u prozore otvorenog nemira
kriska smisla dokle ce stici
zaustavi gitare
da zasvira tmina
citaoce
muziku sfera
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Mit o postanku zla
I sotona rece:
'Neka bude laž! '
I bi laž.
Skrila se u kamenju
Pa sa visina sipa.
I sotona rece:
'Nek licemjerja bude! '
I bi licemjerje.
Skrilo se u rijecima
I ceka da progovori.
Pokrilo se paucinom
I pauke hrani.
Od samog sebe se skrilo.
I sotona rece:
'Nek otrova bude! '
I otrova bi.
Šejtani ga iz olujnog daha
Vitlajuc macem prosuli.
Nataložio se na zemlji
I njenim tokovima tece.
Skrio se u krvi.
I sotona rece:
'Da bude mržnja! '
I bi mržnja.
Prštala na sve strane
Kao krv koja ne može da se zgruša.
Šapama trigova hodala
Pa se i ona pod mahovinom
Na sjeveru lednom skrila.
I sotona rece:
'Neka bude covjek! '
I bi covjeka.
U laži i licemjerju se skrio
Otrovom ga mržnja ko mlijekom dojila.
Pirat se skrio u jedra umotan.
I bi covjeka
U zvijerima se skrio.
I sotona tece:
'Da misli da me nema! '
Ali tako ne bi
Bješe mu laž u pocetku rijeci.
Napisano 1989. rekonstruisano 2012-02-06.
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The Glass/Č Aša
Would you have liked it if it had not been broken?
Who likes those smashed ones standing
At the edges of the tables made of pain
Who likes to put them together like pieces of a puzzle
Fill them with the water from their own fountain
Drink them to the bottom and smash them again?
Dali bi je volio da nije bila slomljena?
Ko voli one što skrhano stoje
Na ivicama trpeza od bola
Ko voli da ih ko slagalicu spoji
Napuni vodom sa svoga izvora
Ispije do dna i ponovo razbije?
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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That's not it-To nije to
Excuse me sir
You look like someone I've met before
And I am sure it is like that
I'm sure everyone has met everyone before
In what's called preceding lives
Do you believe in that sir
I mean those karmas
Moving along cyclic zodiacs
Made of illiterate stars
Sounds quite familiar to me
A life through trials and errors
I think sir
When I outstretch the palm of my hand
(Do not worry you don't have to give me any
Of your monthly revenue
I am not that kind of a beggar)
When I outstretch the palm of my hand
And look at those divinely entangled lines
So cryptic
That are supposed to determine my fate
I think there's got to be some mistake there
That they are not there to determine me
But to tell me that this palm belongs to me only
That I am just like you sir
A creature born once a creature divine
Unrepeatable and free
For most when I outstretch the palm of my hand
To see my own geometry of the universe
Or to turn it into a fist
To strike the face of Fortune
Then I think sir
For sure we've all met before
In the faces of Adam and Eve
Hitting their foreheads against the ground
Once they vaguely hinted the Heaven is perhaps
Nothing but a wholeness of a soul in unity with its Creator
And Hell the lack of the same thing
Yes I am sure we've met before
In the face of Christ crucified on the cross
That redeemed us through his blood
For a dream in which an Idiot
Will not have to find a compartment
In which he would, with a roomful of thoughts
In his head just like me right now,
He would not have to repeat
That's not it that's not it until he cannot
Thinking perhaps about those marbles of lifeful life
Whose glimmer fades away once they break out on the surface
To dry in the fire of their own eyes
Thinking that's not it that's not it
Meaning perhaps those insipid theories
Endlessly talked about in a leisure
Of some nice first class trains
Journey through Switzerland
Theories endlessly repeated at some nice
Comfortable places just on a pass by through life
In a conversation with an art dealer
Theories made official through some nicely polished clear expression
So clear that one could die of clarity
And nothing would be said about an idiot
Sir we look so far away
So far away from Adam that's been met before lying in our bones
The way the trains suicidely lie on the rails of expulsion
So far away from Eve and her snake
Winding like a steam of a train
Of a great invention that has perhaps only been brained out
So that an Idiot in a first class train
Travelling through Switzerland
Could keep repeating that's not it that's not it
We look so far away from them
And still keep hitting our foreheads against the ground
That's not it that's not it sir
Sorry for stopping you
What I actually wanted to ask you is
Which street we're in
And if you know what my name is
And if it's ever too late to know ourselves
(Note: Idiot, a novel by Fjodor Michailowitsch Dostojewski)
To nije to
Izvinite gospodine
Izgledate kao neko koga sam vec srela
I sigurno je tako
Sigurno smo sreli
U onome što zovu prethodnim životima
Vjerujete li vi u to
Mislim u te karme
Što se krecu po ciklicnim zodijacima
Nastalih od nepismenih zvijezda
Jedan zivot putem pokušaja i pogrešaka
Zvuci mi sasvim poznato
Mislim gospodine
To znate kada ispružim dlan
(ne brinite nista ne morate da mi date
Od svog mjesecnog prihoda
Ja nisam takva prosjakinja
Kada ispružim dlan
I pogledam sve te linije
Božanstveno isprepletene i kripticne
Koje treba da mi odrede sudbinu
Mislim da tu postoji neka greška
Da one nisu tu da me odrede
Vec da mi kažu da ovaj dlan
Pripada samo meni
Da sam kao i vi gospodine
Jednom rodena božanska
Neponovljiva i slobodna licnost
I to najviše onda kada ispružim dlan
Da vidim sopstvenu geometriju svemira
Ili kada ga stisnem u pesnicu
Ne bih li zadala udarac Fortuni
Ja mislim gospodine
Da sasvim sigurno svi smo se vec negdje sreli
U licu Adama i Eve što lupaju celom u zemlju
Kad naslutili su da raj možda nije ništa drugo
Do cjelovitost duše sa njenim Tvorcem
A pakao nedostatak iste
Da sasvim sigurno
Svi smo se vec jednom sreli
U licu Hrista raspetog na krstu
Što krvlju nas svojom uvijek iznova iskupljuje
Za san u kome jedan Idiot
Nece morati da pronadje kupe
U kom bi sa punom sobom misli
Baš kao ja sad do iznemoglosti ponavljao
To nije to to nije to
Misleci možda na rijeci klikere živog života
Što gube sjaj kada isplivaju na površinu
Da se suše u vatri sopstvenih ociju
Misleci na to nije to to nije to
Misleci možda na ucmale teorije života
Što se ispredaju dokono u finim vozovima
Prve klase u prolazu kroz Švajcarsku
I ponavljaju sve po nekim finim udobnim mjestima
U prolazu kroz život
U razgovoru sa trgovcem umjetnickih djela
Ozvanicene putem nekog finog ispoliranog jasnog izraza
Toliko jasnog da ce da se umre od razgovjetnosti
A ništa o Idiotu nece reci
Kako smo daleko gospodine
Kako smo daleko od tog Adama
Što sretosmo ga ranije u kosti nam ulego
Onako kao vozovi samoubilacki leže
Na šinama izgnanosti
Daleko od te Eve i njene zmije
Što se izvija kao para voza
Velikog izuma
Koji je možda izmozgan samo da jedan Idiot
U finom vozu prve klase na putovanju kroz Švajcarsku
Tiho ponavljao to nije to to nije to
Kako samo izgledamo daleko od njih
A i dalje lupamo celom o zemlju
To nije to to nije to gospodine
Izvinite što sam vas zaustavila
U stvari sam samo htjela da vas pitam
U kojoj sam sada ulici
Dali možda znate kako se zovem
I dali je ikada kasno da spoznamo sebe
Napomena: Idiot, roman Fjodora Mihailovica Dostojevskog
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Da Da Dali
Dada dali goodbye, dada dali dont sigh
Your soft alarm clocks quake me
So boil your beans and meet me at perignon station
Crutch me dali again, lobster telephone friend
Stay in your seat, watch what you eat
If you dont get a dead mule then youll know Im in heat
Dada dali hello, dada dali youre just another onionhead
song performed by by Todd Rundgren
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Silent refugees
What are we left with
When years and health are gone
When tents fall down under the roofs
When the shelters no longer shelter
When winters close down frozen and fireless
When summers burn crying for some ice
When springs forget to grow
And autumns die within a leaf
Who are we left with
When all the beloved are gone
When the helpful can no longer help
When there are no more roads to run
When the vacuum of the universe
Closes beyond our heads
Silent refugees from the earth
Silent refugees from the sky
In Who we shall die
Tihe izbjeglice
Sa č ime smo ostavljeni
Kad prođ u godine i uruč i se zdravlje
Kada se šatori pod krovovima ruše
Kad više nema skloništa
Kada se zime bez vatre smrznu
Kad ljeta prže i vape za ledom
Kad proljeć a zaborave da rastu
Kad jeseni umru u jednom listu
Sa kim smo ostavljeni
Kad voljenih više nema
Kad i oni od pomoć i pomoć i ne mogu
Kad više nema puta kojim bismo jurili
Kad se praznina svemira
Zatvori iznad glave
Tihe izbjeglice sa Zemlje
Tihe izbjeglice iz neba
U Kome mi ć emo umrijeti
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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A Beat Of Sorrow That Thinks Of Beauty/Otkucaj Tuge Sto Ljepotu Mni
it takes a memory that runs over itself
to get to learn and endless southern rhythm
it takes a fire that burns itself down
to get to know an ocean wave
it takes tender enough strong enough fingers
to summerize anything into a touch
so that the heard amidst the things could recognise
a beat of sorrow that thinks of beauty
it takes much more and reaches much stronger
to ask for more to search and look
so as to eventually know
the one in the seed of wake planted
the being cut off from itself
into the cliffs of the world pushed forever
it takes a huge knowledge an endless one
of this world's drama
for just one beat of sorrow that thinks of beauty
otkucaj tuge što ljepotu mni
potrebno je sjećanje koje samo sebe gazi
da bi se spoznao beskrajni ritam juga
potrebna je vatra koja samu sebe spaljuje
da bi se spoznao okeanov talas
potrebni su dovoljno nježni i snažni prsti
da bi se išta saželo u dodir
da bi srce u srži svega moglo da prepozna
otkucaj tuge što ljepotu mni
potrebno je mnogo više mnogo snažnije
da se ište dalje da se traži
da bi se najzad saznalo
ono u sjemenu buđenja začeto
od sebe samog otkinuto biće
u urvine svijeta zauvijek bačeno
potrebno je jedno veliko beskrajno veliko
poznavanje drame ovog svijeta
za samo jedan otkucaj tuge što ljepotu mni
1990.
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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How to interpret games/Kako protumaciti igre
For the beginning it would be helpful to remember your childhood. The game is one of the hardest concepts and it requires the classification through the use of a chronological criterion. The games of childhood are a path towards theorizing the world. They sometimes imitate life without an authentic understanding of it, even without the need or wish to understand.
Playing tag for instance is a way to reach the other person using the advantages of the touch therapy.
Ring a ring a roses belongs to the same category except for the fact that this is the game in which you need to turn around a lot. Some people turn so a lot that they get into a trance which only the hide and seek can wafe them from. Speaking of hide and seek you can play it only if you have no problem with your eyesight and if you know how to count at least to…ten. You also need an elementary knowledge of your environment so that the others don't have to look for you in various corners where you can be detained with or without kneeling on corn. (Kneeling on corn is the game of the transition period)
The game of growing up is red gloves. Sometimes the gloves are so red that you may end up being blood transfused. The most interesting thing is that even if you know who hit you the pain does not decrease. Time, the most important factor in the development of games, can be helpful in increasing the pain tolerance degree. A comforting fact is that the only constant thing in the whole game is the colour of the gloves.
The game of the mature period is mother and father. Genetics plays the crucial role here. A continual jigsaw between dna and rna counting of chromosomes like marbles will distract your attention from the essence of this game.
The game of getting old is silent swinging alongside brain cells dying out. In this period you have already managed to cope with all the aforementioned games and now you can finally take your time.
The game of dying is a fairy tale being red before a good night's sleep and a dream in which you're swayed by someone's warm and calm voice. For in the end all you are craving is silence.
Za pocetak bi bilo dobro da se sjetite djetinjstva. To uvijek pomaze. Ovo je inace jedan od najtezih pojmova i zahtjeva klasifikovanje istog koristeci hronoloski kriterijum. Igre djetinjstva put su ka sagledavanju svijeta. One imitiraju zivot bez istinskog razumijevanja istog, a i bez potrebe i zelje za razumijevanjem. Suga je nacin da stignete do drugog koristeci prednosti touch terapije.
U istu kategoriju spada i ringe ringe raja s tim sto vam odzvoni jos prije nego sto ostarite jer je to igra u kojoj puno morate da se vrtite. Neki od nje prosto padaju u trans iz koga ih moze probuditi samo igra zmurke. Zmurke mozete da se igrate samo ukoliko nemate poteskoca sa vidom i ukoliko znate da brojite... makar do deset. Potrebno je i elementarno poznavanje okoline da ne bi na kraju morali i vas da traze po raznim coskovima u koje vas za kaznu stavljaju sa ili bez klecanja na kukuruzu.
(Klecanje na kukuruzu je igra prelaznog perioda) Potrebno je takodje da se unaprijed pomirite sa cinjenicom da nemate pojma koga u stvari trazite. Nije vazno. Cilj uvijek mozete da izmislite. Jer uvijek ce do kraja ostati nerazjasnjeno da li je krajnja svrha igranja postizanje uspjeha ili je igra samoj sebi cilj.
Igra odrastanja je igra crvenih rukavica. Nekad toliko crvenih da zavrsite na transfuziji krvi. Najzanimljivije je to sto i ako pogodite ko vas je zviznuo to ne umanjuje bol. Vrijeme koje je najvazniji faktor u razvoju igara moze vam biti od pomoci da povisite stepen tolerancije na bol. Utjesno je sto u svakom trenutku znate kada i gdje su vas udarili kao i to da je jedina postojana stvar u cijeloj igri boja rukavica.
Igra zrelog doba je igra mame i tate. Genetika je ovdje od presudnog znacaja. Kontinuirano klackanje izmedju RNK i DNK, prebrojavanje hromozoma kao klikera odvratice vam paznju sa sustine igre.
Igra starenja je tiho ljuljanje od kojeg odumiru mozdane vijuge. U ovom periodu vec ste savladili sve prethodno navedene igre i sada mozete da se mirno prepustite uzivanju.
Igra umiranja je citanje bajke pred spavanje i san u koji vas uljuljkuje neciji topao i smiren glas. Jer na kraju svega vapite samo za tisinom.
A Little School of Interpretation, …in x lessons,2007.
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Blac Waves
Where these black waves come
they fill my thoughts
so complete,
and make all seem so desperate,
like there is no future,
like all the hope is gone,
all hope to find happiness
to feel complete
feel joy and happiness.
maybe i am just stupid kid
who beleaves too deep
that happiness in life
is all that matters
no matter for money
no matter for jewelry
or fancy house,
just happiness inside.
-sanja-
poem by Sanja Sarinda
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Nothing (Nafaka)
In which the fullness of being stands
I settle illusions withing
For the sake of evil omens
Not to bloom in spring
Nothing in which I push the questions
In which I settle the answers
For the sake of sense
Not to die out by autumn
Nothing
In which I pour the whiteness
In which I settle the freezing
For the waiting not to melt down at winter
Nothing
In which the sunshine bathes
In which I settle the light
Not to burn myself in summer heat
NISTA u koje staje punoca bica
u njoj nastanjujem privid
uroka radi da se ne prozli
proljecem
nista u koje sazimam pitanja
u njima nastanjujem odgovor
smisla radi da s jeseni
ne uvene
nista u koje sipam bjelinu
u njoj nastanjujem promrzlost
u zimama cekanja da se ne istopi
pahulja
nista u kojem se preliva sunce
u njemu nastanjujem svjetlost
vrelinom ljeta da se ne sprzim
JA
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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for Cita A.
perhaps you are a boat without an anchor.
we need anchors
because we are like boats
sailing in an ocean
sometimes the storms are bigger
and our sails are too small for the winds
and our rudders
are broken,
what i see is that you do not have any
and so i feel pity for you Cita
as you imagine walkie-talkies beside your ears
and talk about the machine of destruction
that is boring in your head like
grills,
that machine that bores holes in your skull
and yet everyone hears nothing
sees no blood
they cannot see what you insists
those that stole your locks and open your doors
and stole your furniture and computers
and spurn you
what education you have in the university
now you throw away
like a cheap earring
Cita, this poem asks you
see God.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A liitle smile/Mali osmjeh
a little smile
a little cry
i want to stay with a ray
for it seems to understand
the meaning of a sunbeam
against the sky that slowly virms
the last of ages the fourth of times
that cracks like fire and soul
and burns itself in a language
that never goes beyond
the microeconomic terms of contract
for an ill hailed host
paragraph sealed
mala suza mali osmjeh
ja zelim da ostanem sa zrakom
jer izgleda ona razumije
zna; enje zrake sunca
spram neba sto polako virmuje
posljednje doba cetvrto vrijeme
sto puca ko vatra i dusa
i samo sebe sagorijeva u jednom jeziku
[to nikada ne ide preko
malodomacinskih tacaka ugovora
za zlom oslovljenig domacina
u paragrafu zapecacenom
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Beside the ashes of an hour/Kraj pepela od sata
You said -it is seven o'clock
And this has not been filled yet
And this hour still strikes the night-
-Here's a moment here's a moment-
A Sunbeam is whispering
-Come one build it a home
A mole builds a dam against the rivers and currents
A bird builds a best from salvation straws
Humans build the houses themselves the windows and the doors
Re-paint the cave
Beside the ashes of an hour
Reče sedam je sati
A urna ova još nije puna
A ura ova još kuca noć
Evo trena evo trena
Šapuće Sunčev zrak
Hajde gradi mu dom
Ko krtica brane spram rijeka i toka
Ko ptica gnijezda od slamčica spasa
Ko čovjek kuće sebe okna vrata
Pećinu nanovo oslikaj
Kraj pepela od sata
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Slap That Bass
Zoom zoom zoom zoom
The world is in a mess
With politics and taxes
And people grinding axes
Theres no happiness
Zoom zoom zoom zoom
Rhythm lead your ace
The future doesnt fret me
If I can only get me
Someone to slap that bass
Happiness is not a riddle
When Im listening to that
Big bass fiddle
Slap that bass
Slap it till its dizzy
Slap that bass
Keep the rhythm busy
Zoom zoom zoom
Misery, youve got to go
Slap that bass
Use it like a tonic
Slap that bass
Keep your philharmonic
Zoom zoom zoom
And the milk and honeyll flow
Dictators would be better off
If they zoom zoom now and then
Today, you can see that the happiest men
All got rhythm
In which case
If you want a bauble
Slap that bass
Slap away your trouble
Learn to zoom zoom zoom
Slap that bass
(bridge)
Dictators would be better off
If they zoom zoom now and then
Today, you can see that the happiest men
All got rhythm
In which case
If you want a bauble
Slap that bass
Slap away your trouble
Learn to zoom zoom zoom
Slap that bass
Zoom zoom zoom zoom
Zoom zoom zoom zoom
Zoom zoom zoom zoom
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The River 3/Rijeka 3
the banks of the body wipe away the limits
an ancient sideroad tree ripes
the river is silent in the tribal song
an unchained thought it deems
it sings lightly in the lap of dawns
'give me those morning lips of yours
a midday kiss from an edge of a word
an evening sound of bells in a song to sing
the secret of a midnight hour'
obale tijela granice brišu
starostavno krajputaš zri
tihuje rijeka plemenskom pjesmom
nesputanu misao mni
pjevuši lako u krilu zora
'daj mi te tvoje jutarnje usne
podnevni poljubac sa ruba riječi
večernji zvon pjesmom da pjevam
tajnu ponoćnog sata'
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If you knew/Kada bi znao
if you knew how much I want you
you'd be scared
you'd be absolutely terrified
you'd learn a tigress paw is a safer handshake
you'd learn a snake's tongue is has a softer touch
you'd find a cave a lighter place to be
you'd not be able to bear it
you'd die
but if you knew how much I love you
you'd find a way to my home
and I'd be cured
kada bi znao
kada bi znao koliko te volim
uplašio bi se
bio bi otkinut od straha
shvatio bi da je šapa tigrice bezbjednija za rukovanje
shvatio bi da jezik zmije ima blaži dodir
našao da je pecina svjetlije mjesto za stanovanje
ne bi izdržao
umro bi
ali kada bi znao koliko te volim
našao bi put do mog doma
i ja bih bila izlijecena
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Turned
Turned into small bowls with fullness opening
Wing spread openness the thought ajar
It beats in the birds runs in waterfalls
The home of crossroads in its heart
It beats life silently deems death
It flickers in the fires of old tribes
They carry the rivers in their arms
For our being between mud and a cloud
The unbuilt built in everything
The unuttered pronounced in everything
Never enough life in anything lived
Turned into small bowls with fullness opening
U zdjelice pretvorena otvaranjam punoce
Raskriljena otvorenost odskrinuta misao
Kuca u pticama vodopadom tece
Kuca zivot tihuje smrt
Pucketa u vatrama starih plemena
Sto u rukama rijeke nose
Za nasa bivanja
Izmedju blata I oblaka
Od svega izgradjena neizgradjenost
Od svega prozivljenog nikada dovoljno zivota
U zdjelice pretvorena otvaranjem pun
It beats in the birds runs in waterfalls
The home of crossroads in its heart
It beats life silently deems death
It flickers in the fires of old tribes
They carry the rivers in their arms
For our being between mud and a cloud
The unbuilt built in everything
The unuttered pronounced in everything
Never enough life in anything lived
Turned into small bowls with fullness opening
U zdjelice pretvorena otvaranjam punoce
Raskriljena otvorenost odskrinuta misao
Kuca u pticama vodopadom tece
Kuca zivot tihuje smrt
Pucketa u vatrama starih plemena
Sto u rukama rijeke nose
Za nasa bivanja
Izmedju blata I oblaka
Od svega izgradjena neizgradjenost
Od svega prozivljenog nikada dovoljno zivota
U zdjelice pretvorena otvaranjem punoce
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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