FRIENDS
Sunday morning, melancholy’s like
going to a supermarket. A little of this,
a little of that; nothing could have worked out better,
but everything would be different now…
Sitting on a concrete wall, children with grown-up’s heads,
waiting for someone to call out their name again,
for a football team, for that unforgetable love…
Shoulders of angels, foreheads of the future
murderers; antithesis of evil
splashed over the school’s high windows…
These days, when you run into them,
you don’t know what’s on the outstretched hand:
they are like pears waiting on the table – the taste
passes through them when it fancies,
or doesn’t arrive at all…
Translated from Bosnian by the author.