Birthday Poem: On the Lack of Time
No matter how I turn, the path has always been short
and time ironically
undersized. Like Camus once, I too learned how
to live, way before
howto think. For example, here and now. While
in the warm
bed I drop into sleep listening to how: in the high
expands the storm. As selfish as I am, I do not think
that already tonight,
while I am softly sinking into the slumber: up there
on the mountains
above the City, the wind will take the roofs off even
the best homes. I have
no time, at seventy seven, to dwell upon that. And,
it seems, I never
have had it, enough. Neither in my considerably
Therefore, irrevocably sinking into sleep, I am
the mirror of the sky peeking through the windows.
The mirror of my
egotism which, once, long ago, cracked or even broke.
I have never been
able to confess, or even tell to anyone. Not to myself,
of course. Especially
not to myself. The road has, thus, been unbearably
short and time
condensed. However, I did not know that, then.
Or there has not
been anyone to, at least, warn me, ahead of time.
Translated from Serbian: Mira N. Mataric, 2009.
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