Miroslav Antic – Poslednja bajka

Ušunjam se u tvoj jastuk
kao tišina perja,
kao tršave šiške večeri
mirisave od lišća,
od mesečine na peščanim obalama,
od uvele svežine oktobra,
– baš tako se ušunjam
i slušam,
slušam šta sanjaš.

Nikome neću kazati.
Ali hoću da znaš:
čuo sam,
čuo sam sve sto sanjaš,
jer drugo ništa i ne znam
samo se u snove razumem,
kao što se kauboji razumeju u laso,
kao što se tvoj tata razume u politiku,
kao što se najveći fudbaler razume
u svoju veliku utakmicu,
– tako se i ja samo u snove razumem.

U snove zbog kojih, kad se probudimo,
gledamo nekud visoko,
visoko,
i rastemo,
rastemo,
produžujemo se kroz rukave i nogavice,
rastemo,
produžujemo se kroz oči i srce
kao putevi,
kao pruge,
kao nevidljive šare ptičjeg leta,
daleko,
daleko,
bez Aladinovih lampi,
bez čizama od sedam milja,
ošamućeni od bajke koja se zove detinjstvo.

Ušunjam se u tvoj jastuk
da ne znaš,
ušunjam se kao umor od jurnjave po sumracima,
pokrivam te celu noć,
a pre no sto se probudiš
ostavim ti na rukama toplim od sna,
na trepavicama i rumenim obrazima
mali smotuljak jutra,
jer drugo ništa i ne znam,
samo se u jutro razumem
i raznosim ga kao mlekarice mleko,
kao pekari kifle,
kao poštari pisma
velikom belom kočijom
koja neću da ti kažem kako se zove,
ali sam ćeš se setiti.

tn_MikaAnticUsunjam se

English Translation
The Last Fairytale

I sneak into your pillow
like the silence of the feathers,
like unruly bangs of the night
scented with leaves,
with the moonlight on sandy shores,
with faded freshness of October,
– I sneak in exactly like that
and listen,
listen to your dreams.

I wont tell anyone.
But I want you to know:
I’ve heard,
I’ve heard all that you dream of,
because I don’t even know much about anything else
I only know something about dreams,
the way that cowboys know about lasso,
the way that your dad knows about politics,
the way that the greatest football player knows about
his first big game,
– the same way I only know about dreams.

About the dreams, because of which, when we wake up,
we look somewhere high above,
high above,
and we grow,
grow,
we stretch through our sleeves and pant legs,
we grow,
we stretch through our eyes and heart
like roads,
and railways,
like invisible patterns of bird flight,
far away,
far away,
with no Aladdin lamps,
with no seven mile boots,
dizzy from the fairytale called childhood.

I sneak into your pillow
without you knowing,
I sneak in like fatigue from chasing around at dusks,
I cover you all night
and before you awake
I leave on your hands, warm from a dream,
on your eyelashes and warm cheeks
a tiny bundle of morning
Because I don’t even know much about anything else,
I’m at home only with mornings
and I deliver them like milkwomen deliver milk,
like bakers deliver crescent rolls
like postmen deliver letters
in a big white carriage
which I don’t want to tell you what is called
but you will figure it out yourself.

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