I FEED ON WORDSÂ
I feed on eight-shaped words
carved in the stone of Andric`s City
with four earrings in a flower
a wreath of midsummer flowers and one rose,
I feed on words in flight above Kusturica’s films.
I seek freedom from historical light
to illuminate rates of Gavrilo Princip
from the springs and whirlpools of Drina
to straighten the spirit and open the eyes dulled by sin.
As soon as the sun makes eight circlesÂ
I give myself the freedomÂ
to fed on words and spread my wings like an eagle
Principles to overthrow the chains
from the dungeon to the light and fly, fly,
high, high, high, above the river Drina.
I was born from Andric’s eighth word.
The prophet announced the child
unhappy, but sweet-blooded, merciful and sensitive.
Stitched in the thoughts of the creator
legal father and illegitimate mother
history distorted and the truth buried in the heart
gave birth to me from a stone-city of words.
From the thoughts of fathers fell on mother Earth, a bridge the Drina
over someone’s shoulder, a child of words sways a grandmother on her lap.
I feed on words big and small
the cutest with true colors
of eternal rivers Drina and Andric`s City.
ITALIAN
What is your word?
Coffee americano, in Rome it’s lungo coffee
so black, hot and long with milk, for the lady,
extended espresso.
Which woman?
NescafÊ with milk in a tall glass?
Cappuccino?
I’m not like my friends, you don’t know yet.
Short, black, killer.
You would talk with someone but don’t understand anyone
And You don’t even want to break free
You still love that pain that binds the heart
because it wants to make you more aware
that You have money for coffee, for a lover, a leather purse
l’Italiano.
The Spanish Steps where You are in the crowd,
The quietest place, the emptiest place, the loneliest,
reminds of sadness.
We just need a chat because everything has already been said.
I am a melodious word that bites:
Coffee with milk.