Milan Orlich

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

pine crowns:

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

younger days.

Therefore, irrevocably sinking into sleep, I am

looking into

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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