Neko me inspiriše. Tako tufnasto. Tako mi prija. Neko je tu svaki dan. I svaku noć. Tu je i kad ga nema. I kad ode za njim ostane miris na šnenokle. Ostane taman do sledećeg dolaska. Tačno zna kad treba.
Neko me inspiriše. Tako toplo. Pali vatru da me zgreje. Puše mi u ruke, gura olovku u prste i kaže: piši, miriši, inspiriši... A ja ne znam da li znam, da li još uvek umem kao pre. Pa crvenim, rumenim tufnasto, pegice na nosu nosim.
Neko me inspiriše. Tako nežno. Pa snažno. Opet nežno. Broji mi snove, predano ih skuplja pod jastukom, da ih se ujutru setim. Da me tumači.
I sanjam... pod nekim čempresima u Toskani prolilo se vino po mojoj haljini, jednom. Prskale su zrele smokve pod pohotnim nepcima, negde u Kefaloniji, u svitanje, sazrele među mojim butinama. Topile se krupne pahulje u džepu kaputa, u petrogradskom kafeu, pod dlanovima koji se traže. Pa opet ovde, dok navlačim njegovu majicu, dve breskvice za dobro jutro...
Ponovo sam tu, i otišla i došla, a da nigde koraka pustila nisam. Putujem tiho, u sebi, da neko ne vidi, da me ne prepozna dok sanjam. Da me ne probudi naglo, da ne padnem, ne polomim krila. Sanjam nežno. Sve je još toplo od sna. Neka me još malo. Samo još pet minuta.
Neko me inspiriše. Tako nežno. Pa snažno. Opet nežno. Broji mi snove, predano ih skuplja pod jastukom, da ih se ujutru setim. Da me tumači.
I sanjam... pod nekim čempresima u Toskani prolilo se vino po mojoj haljini, jednom. Prskale su zrele smokve pod pohotnim nepcima, negde u Kefaloniji, u svitanje, sazrele među mojim butinama. Topile se krupne pahulje u džepu kaputa, u petrogradskom kafeu, pod dlanovima koji se traže. Pa opet ovde, dok navlačim njegovu majicu, dve breskvice za dobro jutro...
© Copyright 2016 J. Djurić
Just as beautiful in any language.
ОдговориИзбришиSomeone inspire me. Just like polka-dots. Someone is here everyday, and every night. Here even when out of my reach. And when I follow him the smell of Souffle remains. He waits precisely until my next arrival. Always knowing when. Someone inspire me.
Someone inspire me. So warm. Light a fire to keep warm me. Open my hand, place the pencil between my fingers and say: Write, smell, be inspired...But I don't know if I still can like before. So I blush, yellow polka-dots, on my nose I wear them.
Someone inspire me. So gently. So strong. Gentle again. I Count my dreams, committed to save them under my pillow, so that I remember them in the morning. For interpretation.
And I dream...Under some cypress trees in Tuscany where I spilled wine all over my dress, again. It splashed the ripe figs under my voluptuous palate, somewhere in Cephalonia, at dawn, matured between my thighs. The melted snowflake in his pocket in a St. Petersburg cafe, searching for it in the palm of my hand, here again, and as I put on his shirt, two peaches for a good morning...
Again I'm here, I left and returned, and nowhere did I leave a trace of my steps. I tiptoe quietly, to myself, so that no will notice, that no one will notice that I'm dreaming. So that they don't wake me up, so that I don't fall, and break my wings. My dream is tender. Everything is still warm from sleep. Leave me to sleep a little more. Just five more minutes.