Milan Georges Burovac Poems

our words are of a theater
and they don't tell anything
to the angels - nor the sky-blue
nor the soul ocean
...

again this constrution
the Earth concept
its sky my chaos
...

her way to touch the sky
her light in mine
her soul on my destiny
...

my death announced
already the script of oblivion
and the body that gives itself
to oracle's minds
...

the war is not the peace
the peace is not the love
the love will never be goodness
if you spit on my dreams
...

to know this world
to describe her city
Dasein in twelve prayers
and its absolute Time
...

in her
in me
in sun
...

one moment one
waits for the impossible
more this love
where light vibrates
...

in every Sunday
one Saturday evening
one Monday morning
and this dream of one Tuesday
...

of art - I am her delirium
in a human's darkness
of being - this Nothingness
...