Miroslava Odalovic (Montenegro)

with the garment clouds dressed in hues of sorrow

I saw a blade child cutting through the breath
towards a flake spilled white to be washed away with snow slides

I saw the ice melting into knives falling from the edges
of the buildings built too high to scraper aspire the limits

I saw the footsteps falling apart into pools of dirt
that was mis-named for the first sign of spring
the pigeons that used to come to my window sill
to eat the crumbs of the words I left unspoken
they window pane fly around the treetops in the park across the street - that street that will never come in

I saw things missing from the torn out pages of the books burned
in the name of new readings and old interpretations

I saw them crying out at me helpless enough ever to utter them
saw them floating up in the sky alongside who knows where dragged clouds
with a tear of a lover, the thorn of the beloved
an eye of a baby innocently taking in the horror of growing up to the knowledge of innocence
the staircase sweeping the brooms
and the brooms flying new sticks of war
the owner barking at his dogs
little lessons of loyalty to the whip

I saw the traces of the mist for a lonely traveller untrodden
in this oblivion lamb wombed seeking for its mother
cradle credo swaying in each embryo delivered
the painful queues of waiting for the things
to eventually outgrow themselves into the sky
that once long ago whispered to Atlas

'I never even meant to fall down on you
why don't you rest your hands in peace
I'm just a thin layer of yourself
that you keep boxing with you muscle thought'