Refugees

At the intersection of the main street and the only side street,
At the knot of two opposite directions leading to the same destination,
Anatomy tied us to our dreams as if to an open door
Or to an opening in the wire fence, one that you do not know if it is
for your entering or exiting the world

At the spot of the brisk cut,
At the age when our ideas did not go further than anarchism,
In the dusk under the ochre of the sycamore,
Out of us white waters flew out – the ripples of which circled round the hole
Clamour flooded in like a song of the ripen crops that wave us off with yellowness

A day is franker at dusk. Roads are wider
When approaching the depth woven out of transience;
Closed mouth is a grave secured in stone
From which the unsaid flows out like mist
That forms the vision of suspense hovering over the river of people

(Translated by Stela Kovac)