leži kao ograđeni vinograd
usamljen i valovima okrenut.
Njegovo lice ljupko je i ozbiljno.
Po njemu se igra podnevni vjetar.
Ne znam je li ljepša grana šipkova
puna cvrkuta ptičjeg ili pregib
njegova pojasa gipkiji od guštera.
Slušam tutanj niske grmljavine
koja se izvija s mora, sve to bliže.
I skrivena u lišću stare agave
motrim kako grlo mladića postaje galeb
i odlijeće put sunca klikćući sjetno
u žutim oblacima. A iz bronce
njegova raskošnog trbuha diže se mrko
cvjetna vrlet na kojoj se odmaraju
prekrasne vile i kraljice iz bajka.
Šušti žalo i more je posivjelo.
Zlatne sjenke zasjeniše vinograd.
Stubovi oblaka penju se u daljini.
Munje dotiču šumovitu uvalu.
Udišem miris ljeta u nasadima
i puštam da me opaja nagost bilja.
Zatim gledam svoje blistave ruke
i bedra pjenom morskom pozlaćena
iz kojih teče ulje maslinika.
I vračajući mirne oči k njemu
koji spava uronjen u huku
spore oluje, prastar kao agava,
mislim, puna rasijane žudnje,
koliko bijelih ptica raskriljenih
dršće u modrim gudurama oblačnim
tog tijela koje tišinom zbunjuje
šumor mora i samoću trava.
Vesna Parun
Sleepy boy
Prone on the shore of the shadowy bay
lays down like a bounded vineyard
lonesome and turned towards the waves.
His face is graceful and sincere.
Noon’s wind plays on it.
I’m not sure if the rose hip branch is prettier
full of birds chirping, than the curve
of his waist resilient than of a lizard.
I listen to the booming of the low thunder
that buckles from the sea, more and more.
And hidden in the leaves of the old agave
I observe how the boy’s neck becomes the seagull
and flies away to the sun exulting sadly
in yellow clouds. And from the bronze
of his sumptuous stomach raises darkly
floral cliff with resting
breathtaking fairies and fairy tale queens.
The shore rustles and the sea turned grey.
Golden shadows outshined the vineyard.
Columns of clouds are rising in the distance.
Lightning touches the forested bay.
I inhale the fragrance of summer in plantations
and I’m intoxicated by the nudity of plants.
Then I look at my glaring hands
and my thighs gilded by the sea foam
where oil from olive groves flows.
And when I turn back my calm eyes to him
who sleeps immersed into the roar
of the slow storm, ancient like agave,
I think, full of absent longing,
how many white birds with spread wings
quiver in livid cloudy gorges
of that body which puzzles with silence
the sea murmur and the grass solitude.
Vesna Parun
(Preveo Darko Kotevski)
Sleepy boy
Prone on the shore of the shadowy bay
lays down like a bounded vineyard
lonesome and turned towards the waves.
His face is graceful and sincere.
Noon’s wind plays on it.
I’m not sure if the rose hip branch is prettier
full of birds chirping, than the curve
of his waist resilient than of a lizard.
I listen to the booming of the low thunder
that buckles from the sea, more and more.
And hidden in the leaves of the old agave
I observe how the boy’s neck becomes the seagull
and flies away to the sun exulting sadly
in yellow clouds. And from the bronze
of his sumptuous stomach raises darkly
floral cliff with resting
breathtaking fairies and fairy tale queens.
The shore rustles and the sea turned grey.
Golden shadows outshined the vineyard.
Columns of clouds are rising in the distance.
Lightning touches the forested bay.
I inhale the fragrance of summer in plantations
and I’m intoxicated by the nudity of plants.
Then I look at my glaring hands
and my thighs gilded by the sea foam
where oil from olive groves flows.
And when I turn back my calm eyes to him
who sleeps immersed into the roar
of the slow storm, ancient like agave,
I think, full of absent longing,
how many white birds with spread wings
quiver in livid cloudy gorges
of that body which puzzles with silence
the sea murmur and the grass solitude.
Vesna Parun
(Preveo Darko Kotevski)
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