Slavica Blagojević (Anisija Crepović)
MY NEST IS A ROCKY SOIL
The fledgling of the prophetic bird in Jerusalem
As I lay on the Milkprofferer’s breast
I unfasten the spilt hunger
moving around the edge of an evil time
soaring with the bird of Fate
I watched the saints weep.
Your motherhood
poured out from the branch of your blood
your youth
awoke from your milk.
Stone by stone slips from the hands
and in your womb sin breathes.
Cloistered crossroads and roads
stunned by fear, in our wake not a single skull shines in their vicinity.
At the root, the cut off foot remains bare.
Out of sight of children
with soft faces; lines collected
slightly faded
The Milkprofferer is unaware that
she is observed
imbuing her
abruptly old face, all the centuries
abutted by mankind.
Between the buttercup flower and the rock
yonder, perhaps I could call it home,
in the scent of milky tears I shall inhume my senses and scattered yellow light across the earth.
The eyes stare in the hope of finding Christ
among the warriors.
Bending the knee; I catch that cantillation of prayer, that soothing breath of those wounded,
homeless in their own country
That image of the voice, the voice that reflects, in the soil, the spring in the ground.
They shall rise soon:
Home, who would not wish to return there, for a door to open suddenly
The oily wick curled like a weasel’s tail
for a drop of tallow to drip in the dark over the feet
and vouch that the floor is there –
a red lamp to shine, and the top crust of bread
the nest built on rocky ground, to glow atop the hill.
The skin of her breast like a silk cocoon, removed my tongue
planted it in the rose garden, where she goes to sing in the eve, in the gorse brush.
Bloody wars are being waged, yonder are pastures and rusty broken gates that open with a creak
facing the landscapes of New Days and the bird’s ominous call, they lie amidst the meadows
kissing Christ’s firefly on the foot
in the dark roots of the world.
No comments:
Post a Comment