An Imprint Of The Pen Poem by Zvonko Maković

Whatever I touch,
time touches me.
As well as patience, care,

intolerable closeness.
Soft objects become
characteristics, while characteristics become matter.

Only matter.
In my notebook, I suddenly
wake up like a supple hand,

or, more precisely - a motion. I wake up
in fluid. Like
a melody that echoes in

sleeping newlyweds' room.
I float and exist always
escaping. Because I am a sigh.

Just think how good
nature is to change me like
money. When in each

of my grains it sees consistence,
devotion. Precisely:
consistence and devotion.

Translation: Miljenko Kovaèicek