I was picking red peonies with you last night
by the muddy Bistrica river.
From the sky were falling white petals on us
from the hands of souls who haven’t found peace.
From grass could be heard whisperings of ancient lovers,
the sound of horsemen clatter was coming from the road,
as in the poems of Hikmet Nazim.
While drops of the mystic rain were colouring our faces
Your eyes were sparkling balsam for the soul
and with some damned synergy
your hot breath on my mature lips
was turning into scarlet dew drops.
Everything was unreal except the night,
except our tears and blessings of our Lord.
Now, I know that you are and what is and what is not.
If you were a blue dawn of my gentle death
and painful twilight of their outgoing youth;
if you were stopped voice of the primordial scream,
the runaway dream of fullness of a sleeping angel
who got tired of the excessive desire
and wished to rest on my shoulder.
Pix from Net.