Peko Laličić – Serbia

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Peko Lalicic,

writer – member of the Association of Serbian Writers

E-mail: [email protected]

 

 

I’LL BURN CHARMED WITH FIRE

 

Above the red flanders poppy

colorful butterflies wispers-

I am afraid my wings will burn.

 

Fireflies ignite lanterns

to elude the field of poppy flowers,

to not burn down deliriously.

 

Inamorated seagulls

above the sea they fly,

to not get burned by the flame of love.

 

And I, I am solely calling your name,

and I know I will burn down deliriously

charmed with the fire,

the poppy flowers

the red flanders poppy,

my flaming seagull,

my dreamish fire.

 

 

 

 

 

I FEEL

 

I mow the clouds

and I don’t let the stars escape

as I tighten the feathers strings

and soak them with melancholy and wine

to keep my batteries full,

so I grow like a song,

like young grain,

like fragrant hills

from which I cannot see

further than my nose,

because my glare hides the blaze

out of your eye

who poisons me,

makes me mad,

haunts and seas,

so driven i feel

that your well makes me strong,

they call out and call out

to approach them

and rely on settled hope,

may my day be filled with you

higher for the inch

not to waste the clouds in vain

because the stars will stay the night

in your lap.

 

 

YOU

 

By the jump of the antelope,

self conscious

and like the song of nightingale

in my day,

like an unreal dream

step in.

 

Out of me

the wells utter

and all the power

has given to the wind

to bestow me to the distance

 

I am dew this morning

From your lips,

and the day in my breast

have hidden the key to hapinness.

 

Dronish and stroner

into the night and song

I stepped.

 

From the dream I am awoken

by the dreamy breath of the antelope

and your song.

 

 

I RECOGNIZE MYSELF IN YOU, FATHER

 

Like you

I recognize myself

in a drop of dew

without mincing my words.

 

I do not drowse the day,

I do not watch up the night,

I­ am calling the morning

and uninvited birds are coming,

 

similar to your temper

with thw song of the sun they fall

for a man to dawn,

 

to look like you,

to recognize myself in the day

which dandelion dreams of

before dawn.

 

 

 

IF I WERE BORN AGAIN

 

If I were born again

I would be the valley

inhabited by birds.

 

I would be the water in the roots

and strengthened the dreamers

and poets.

 

If I were born again

I would be the flute,

double flute.

 

I’d love to be a boatman

and drove the lovers

into the bays known to them.

 

I would drink the breath od dawn

and be the song,

the song of all.

 

 

 

 

THE BRIGHTEST SPOT

 

I chant love,

the brightest spot of the sky,

without which the outreached hands are not hands,

no fire is fire,

without which the endless end invokes.

 

I fervently say,

that my tree also grows toward the sun

with the language of fire

and flower buds speak

from the crack of me

enamored with life and people,

and with you fire,

because of which I burn.

 

I chant love

and I do not rebuke myself

which drives me aflame

to be friends with birds and rivers,

and the sunflowers allure me

and in dew i reflect

as the day is born and matured in me

filled with red roses,

and for not giving away the quiet night

and radiant hope

for a dream full of angels and stars.

 

I chant out loud

to the most sacret point of the universe

that my tree rave at dawn,

about you fire that makes me burn.

 

Spoken aloud

straightening my wings

with the hope of eternal awakening

a near miracle,

for which in a seagull’s cry

a circle of beauty begets,

and in the root of my being is a flame,

by which the sun enters the white night,

and it cries for longing,

and it fires the omen,

and inflames sweet thoughts

which makes me chant love,

and I know that life is not what we imagine it

to be,

nor it is what we think is not

and that the secret in flames

of eternal hope,

of the sun in me

and in endless dream nestles.

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