For us is enough to insert moon into twilight,
not routinely, like a coin into the slot machine,
and conosours of beauty are trembling in admiration
while choirs recite praises.
We are closer to Zenith
of course light as baloons.
We sing about its monumental emptiness.
We already envy our own past.
Pixiades, Smiljana
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem