Sunday, April 1, 2018




More persistent than Scheherazade
I was rehearsing his game
With more daring and haste,
More adept at the force of the secular experience
Etched in my mind,
Sure you would like more
Of words ethereal,
A stronger tone of flesh slams at dusk
And burn everything she touched.
We cling to this son of passion paramount
Longer than the thousand and one nights,
He has been growing, decreases the space
It brings us closer to the fire,
And here we burns longer, with more than fire,
On behalf of those who go out, yet greedy
Absorbs the divine spark.
No Master and its taken between us,
But, one the other captives,
Captives we stay a game nice to meet you.
There is no end to this "night":
Between us, there's the sword,
From The Sheath,
A new choreography of Scheherazade
And your eyes, amazed.



That morning when a hot day was waking up
at the end of June and the end of time,
when I was at the turn of the past and new life,
I will never be able to forget,
that secret closeness with you,
those hands that were holding my dream
surfaced from the sunken Sitnitsa River,
that premonition of a possible revival,
that illusion of duration in giving,
that longing of the blood flow for boiling,
that genuine life,
the moment of fullness in nothingness,
that bridge made of light connecting me with the Living,
those inner fires which confirm that I Am,
that glowing face which I save for a moment,
that magic of transfiguring blood,
I will never allow to be gone.
I will engrave it on my forehead,
and when death comes down and spots it,
it will draw back shamefacedly.


Black angels were hovering
Above his cradle while he was dreaming
Of creating a figure
They were ominously alighting on his face.
Then here was dark night and day
The divinity of Mother's face fell down
And the first Scream was heard.

Once more the black angels were arriving
Waking him up, closing his eyes
Until his sister was gone with them.
And the dark kept spreading
Until the entire Soul became a Scream.
He grew up together with the hell
That blended with his being.

And Father kept watch on him
Almost as bodiless
As the black angels of childhood
Who stifled the screams
Until the muteness started to speak
In the picture named A Scream
Painted by a casual play
Of Destiny
Signed by Munch's hand.



MILICA JEFTIMIJEVIĆ LILIĆ was born at Lovac near Banjska, Kosovo & Metohija, on August 28, 1953. She graduated at the Faculty of Philosophy in Priština, and won a master's degree in philological sciences at the University of Belgrade. She was a professor at the University of  Priština, and editor on Belgrade TV. She has published the following collections of poems: Dark, Salvation (1955), The Hibernation (1998), The Travelogue of the Skin (2003), and a collection of stories The Subject-matter of the Case (2002). She has also published books of criticism: Poetics of the Premonition (2004), The Epsistomlogical Illuminations (2007), Critical Roots and Ranges (2011), The Exactness of the Secret (2012)…Partenon buildings of stars, (poetry) ,Arka Smederevo , Stari Kolašin,Zbin Potok, 2015… She also writes stories for children which have been published in Children's Papers, Jedinstvo, and other newspapers. She has represented in many anthologies and has many literary awards of national importance  as international...Her poems  and pieces of criticism have been translated into Russian, English, Italian, German, French, Hungarian,Macedonian, Turkish, Swedish, Polish and Arabic....more than 25 lenguages of world. She  was vice President of the Association of writers of Serbia, a member of literary society of writers of Kosovo and Metohija and a member of the Association of Journalists of Serbia. Lives in Belgrade since 1999. Translated from the Serbian by Lazar Macura

1 comment :

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