Turned Poem by Miroslava Odalovic

Turned into small bowls with fullness opening
Wing spread openness the thought ajar
It beats in the birds runs in waterfalls
The home of crossroads in its heart
It beats life silently deems death
It flickers in the fires of old tribes
They carry the rivers in their arms
For our being between mud and a cloud
The unbuilt built in everything
The unuttered pronounced in everything
Never enough life in anything lived
Turned into small bowls with fullness opening

U zdjelice pretvorena otvaranjam punoce
Raskriljena otvorenost odskrinuta misao
Kuca u pticama vodopadom tece
Kuca zivot tihuje smrt
Pucketa u vatrama starih plemena
Sto u rukama rijeke nose
Za nasa bivanja
Izmedju blata I oblaka
Od svega izgradjena neizgradjenost
Od svega prozivljenog nikada dovoljno zivota
U zdjelice pretvorena otvaranjem pun

It beats in the birds runs in waterfalls
The home of crossroads in its heart
It beats life silently deems death
It flickers in the fires of old tribes
They carry the rivers in their arms
For our being between mud and a cloud
The unbuilt built in everything
The unuttered pronounced in everything
Never enough life in anything lived
Turned into small bowls with fullness opening

U zdjelice pretvorena otvaranjam punoce
Raskriljena otvorenost odskrinuta misao
Kuca u pticama vodopadom tece
Kuca zivot tihuje smrt
Pucketa u vatrama starih plemena
Sto u rukama rijeke nose
Za nasa bivanja
Izmedju blata I oblaka
Od svega izgradjena neizgradjenost
Od svega prozivljenog nikada dovoljno zivota
U zdjelice pretvorena otvaranjem punoce