Nameless line
Flocks of seagulls disturbed
Circle over rocky capes
All day
Impatiently –
Because they see us in columns –
Hoping to descend to where we occupied their nests
They do not suspect that the dead do not leave
Assigned execution sites
When they get closer
In the line
Namelessly
Edge of the cape
Sharp stab of a rock
Into the bright sea
Rushing
Wave and thought
Suppressed
Strongly
One with a knife
Is placed on the cape
Important
And rules
Nobody can get close to the cape!
It becomes sharper
They sharpen it –
Who dares to get close will get impaled.
The flag of death screams over it
The knife and the wolf operate the grindstones –
Boasting fang glows from the jaws
The blade is brighter than the sun
Glimmers more than the day
Over the glassy sea it waits for you
In slaughter
Playful
Invitation over graves
– to Orthodox Christians from the village of Šibuljine
murdered on Pag in SLANA camp in 1941.
Towards the rocks, dazed, I reveal only
Myself looking at nothing;
Countless days
I wander in the heat, red hot cauldron
Where they fried you in the black noon
I run away from those I return to
Scattered consciousnesses from a bent hour –
Threatening next to rocky ravines
With accusation I catch myself and the other;
Which sour man did not shiver in his gut
Or with his eye, wrinkle on his forehead
At least had one gray in his hair
Blackened with shame, launched a brave curse
Should not amongst people
Not for a moment, a single day live
A house with such a man
The house, destroy it completely with foundations
……………………………….
Scorched by the sun with consciousness scattered
Running away from you I say goodbye, I said
Tranquil with time, with weak fists
But I have never denied the curse within me
Instead of a palm leaf
Sharp wind
Sharp tongue
Sharp stab
Everything is sharp with you
You sharp Christian knife
Baptised
And converted
Took us with one rope
Together with Jews
Not baptised
They cut us with the same knife
And amongst the same rocks
Pile us killed
Do not our lives
Gods of crime
Separate
During resurrection
When our blood poured
Into the same pore of porous karst
The knife of baptism
Grinning
For eternity
Entwined our fates
Shadows in sand
I sift sand
Chopped bones
Around me
Unfinished road
Port
Bollard
Unfinished fence
A life ended with a knife
Is it over?
Unfinished questions
Over the sifter
Through which I sift shadows
Stela
Handed over to stone fences
We entered our night
Into the sharp stones raising to the sky
If we have not entered your conscience
You came to visit us in vain
With a name
Seagulls fly over the naked
Seductive lines of swimmers enflame fires of lust –
While screams of children are woven into the landscape
I feel hills leaning onto them
Is oblivion unavoidable ashes
For the losses to yield gains?
Inquisitive clouds leave us alone
To, erect, fry on our own
And so again everything is here, in the same hand
Both life and death; not even a shower of joy
To be destroyed in it, so hospitable.
Slana, that is her name
Instead of a palm leaf
In the Pag Gate every day from the bottom
One bell tempers the brass through the deep
Saint Christopher the protector of travellers
The star of Liverpool with beard
From the cape of my island waves at night
With a lamp in his hand and hope
A traveller in the storm who looks his way
Will manage, fortunate, to see his house
From the neighbouring cape winks through the nigh
His comrade the protector of sailors
Saint Nicholas the traveller in sandals
Friends to all overpowered by the gale
Whoever asks for his help
Will return to his children alive
Saint Christopher and Saint Nicholas
They took out their eyes, hid them in the darkness
Under the stone fence of war, domestic –
Since then they have been dead,
Their eyes are lost
Left to thunderous sky and gales
The first remained on the rock drained –
The second one is on the tip of the opposite rock
Bristling like a sharp stone
In the nights of the slaughter in vain did the travellers
Pierced black veil of darkness with screams,
They were brought to the cape with rocks around their necks
And lowered half dead into the deep
They neither saw the saints, nor did at least one
Saint wake up to wave with his lamp
A familiar sigh since the dawn of mankind
For his light to give them hope
Only the dolphins swerved around the corpses
Touched them gently on their way to cold depths
In the watery tomb closed all of their eyes
Laying an old man next to children, a mother next to her son
In the Pag Gate every day from the bottom
One bell tempers the brass through the deep