***
Ended,
in the northern corners
of each of your words,
I am inhaling the scream of butterflies ...
Sparkling stir of wings
is riping cottonly draper of earthen holes ...
Suppressed curve to the resurrection, for us ...
Lacrymose,
you, spitefully swallow smoky milk
from the bottom of the eyes,
which you didn't know that you loved.
Lost goes downstream. ….
And the wind
Swerwe death to the north ...
Flanks of your frozen fingers
are sinking in the skin of my neck...
And while they are melting in dying,
your navel is accreting with the birth,
with the earthen holes...
Ended,
in the astragal of your peeled hands,
of your fossil verses teared off
in the middle of the meaning ...
I am watching scream of butterflies...
You are submerging
your cheeks in my hair.
A lot of tired hours
were shivering with detained autumn in her…
Olivera Katarina
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