Zbornik Mednarodnega literarnega srečanja Vilenica 2004 - Ljudmila

Vojislav Karanović
but the tree looks straight
into your eyes.
3.
Those leaves, green and soft as words,
decaying and rotting, going back
to the earth, wherefrom they sprang.
Are you still afraid
that the poem might escape from you?
The poem does not throw away its words.
The verses — whom can they return to?
Who do they come from at all?
You are still at the window. Watching.
The treetop, that murmuring whirlpool,
focuses in a point
as small as an eye pupil.
The asphalt is like the white of the eye.
The wind slides over it
like an eyelid over the eye.
The earth has your features.
And this is not a window, but a mirror.
How many times have you approached it,
and you never realised that,
never noticed.
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