Monday, November 1, 2021





Why The Opportunism Of A Tadpole

Dries Up A Bog


We missed each other by a hair’s breadth

it was written in a testament

although there were other signs of transience


The opportunism of a tadpole

dries up a bog

and pushes the water lilies into a frenzied escape

and the storks weren’t indifferent either

they went back to their obligations

of lethargic resignation


On the doorstep of a barren woman

an empty bundle

although she had gotten a cradle

and had bought things for the baby


She listened to the crying of a child

in a nest on a chimney of the house

and, on her own hook, she wanted to climb the roof


The air smelled of a late fall

which was announced by reluctant locusts

Only the bees, by their habit,

flew around stalks of the wizened flowers

looking for the honey


In the nest

the child’s cry was still echoing

although the storks

have long gone.


Translation: Denisa Kondić



Desert Lullaby


I am not afraid of dreams anymore

where there is nothing

and that poison my reality

Even that dream

where a mother who just died

reproachingly says


it’s high time to wake up

dreams like that

brought me on this side

in a world of shadows

and motionless

in dreams, you forgot about me

the desert sand covered you all

you will not become an oasis


Enchanted by a dream

I am running

into your arms

That little castle

around your tender heart


I look for a shelter

in your warm smile

your eyes of mellowness

summarizing and counting days

desert days

and all others

that we seized together

from the eternity


Translation: Denisa Kondic



Desert Is The Target That Can't Be Missed


Oasis’ sprout

And tender mirages

From the silence of yore

Nomads pull invisible tents on the sand

They pull the loneliness of ages

And believe

that only a water droplet

from the center of the Earth

that a camel can sense

that only one droplet

can quench the thirst of the whole desert


Nomads my Dear

don’t chase anyone

While they live in the desert

the water finds them from the sand

They are fed by everlasting hunger

that makes them survive


Sometimes in an idle moment


an arrow

or a bow

in secrecy draws

and aims at the abundance of time


All that I have come to know

Before this story


Draw a bow in your chests

Shoot the arrow that poisons your heart

And wait for me my love


Wait for me

since the desert is the target

that can’t be missed


Translation: Denisa Kondić




VESELIN MISNIC: He is a contemporary Serbian and Montenegrin writer. He was born in Mojkovac, Montenegro. As a novelist, story writer, poet, satirist, essayist, he published around forty books in the mentioned genres. He has been translated into about twenty languages. His work has been included in all important collections, almanacs, encyclopedias, and anthologies. He has been awarded several important Serbian prizes: “Risto Ratkovic,” “Radoje Domanovic,” “Dragisa Kasikovic,” “Vojislav Brkovic,” “Milan Rakic,” “A seal of Prince Lazar,” “Simo Matavulj” and more. He is a member of the Associations of Serbian Writers and the Association of Writers of Montenegro. The writer lives and creates in Belgrade, Serbia.

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