What once were bright green dill and apricot leaves, Now are welting garlands, What once was dense gold and lustrous silver Now are dimmed pendants. Twelve sons grow into twelve fathers And twelve daughters into twelve mothers. What will be callous feet are now tender For soft is the holy-water washed skin. Concentrated ground cannot thicken the sole of those who still break their fast With one delightful bite Of grapheme made fruit. What will be sharp tongues are now feeble For faint is the fasting hand that bears the ink. Starved minds can only understand the soul Of those who still give their praise With one pale scripture Of faintly copied flesh. When the heavy scales crack the worn marble, The cold Earth’s dust will sooth their weary feet. When the thick smoke covers the peeled frescos, The old preacher’s incense will sooth their scratched throats. How worldly are our mothers and fathers, How heavenly what they know.
Aleksandra Božović
Recenzirala Nina Stanković
