An old dog afraid of his own shadow
In some southern town…
The story told to me by a woman going blind

It’s raining, it’s pouring,
And your heart is sad,
But you’re not about to say it.

There’ll be nothing but infinite space.
The silence supreme, the silence almighty.
Bright sky. Many stars.

When the National Library burned for three days in August,
the town was choked with snow. Those days I could not find
a single pencil in the house, and even when I grabbed one

Just before the war, a foreign film crew burst into Ruža’s village
and turned the country idyll into chaos: prefabricated shacks
appeared, houses were quickly painted and skilled foreigners

At the beginning of the war, the streets resembled a promenade
of the most beautiful dogs, abandoned by their masters
who had run away from the burning town. Behind them remained

Walking the streets of the city, sitting in a bar. 
Sometimes I take delight in the things I see; 
Sometimes I hardly notice what things are: 

As you look up at me and think you know
That in the light of now I’m such and such—
This light has been relinquished long ago.

A balloon drifting in a pool,
swivelling when the wind changes…

Illusions of the moonlight, pale processions
Of spirits wandering among the trees...
Cries and accusations and confessions...