celestial clock is ticking
how far are we from the eternity,
how close to the mortality?
the hands may overlap
into a perfect harmony
and the eternity could crack,
the mortality roar,
and in a swirling gale,
thundering, rumbling and lightning,
every heavenly vice
shines the sun of nothingness.

beats the terrestrial clock
the death hour;
the hands of the celestial clock
slide around into a perpetuum mobile
of same things, same people, same instruments
playing in the honour of eternity.

how far are we from the eternity,
how close to the mortality,
as with every step magnolia blossoms
are falling around
and the magic never ceases

we are at the mercy
of a giant celestial clock
ticking our death hour.


crickets chirp at midnight
in the eye of the darkness,
playing the eternal song of the genesis,
of the dying and the end;
every cricket keeps chirping its own melody
written under the glistening starry skies;
beyond the horizon of a teal water well,
of streams, rivers, seas and oceans
everything barefooted sages chanted about
in their odes to the eternity
you can drink like nectar
and feed on like ambrosia.

crickets chirp at midnight
and dream of the very perfection of the existence
of the skies above and the sea foam
when storms roll in roaring
and a sudden glare of sunshine bursts
then crickets silence up at dawn
and retreat into the night watch towers
where they chant their inaudible melodies
until new dusk arises
and the night rules again;
will they chirp for the eternity?
will they wrap up the darkness and the silence in sounds?

crickets chirp their songs
slanting, upwards and crosswise
for as long as the mandolin sounds echo
when a trumpeteer signals his tune has come to an end
and the crickets fly away into the sunshine horizon;
the odes have been written, the hymns have shrunk
into the great revelation of the sun and the moon
where they cocoon up.

crickets chirp at midnight
there’s no reply
only crickets chirp at midnight.


upwards, upwards
clouds are rejoicing
look upwards towards the sun
and read the time with a stick in the dry sand
a rock shall split away and roll on

forward and forth
towards the call of the wild
and you shall barefoot set out to the Holy City
its divinity, and further beyond,
cross the seas and oceans,
cross the sands and rocks,
cross the anthills and beehives,
cross the mountain heights and the shallows of the tides

and further and further,
do not linger on your journey
to the rose gardens;
take a seat there and write the music;
upwards, upwards
forward and forth
and further and further
until the dawn breaks
and the crimson lights up
the eternal flame of the ode of joy


ebb and tide
one is coming quietly and rises up
until it pours over lifeless stones of the walkway
where cypresses deliver cones
and the world is so beautiful, oh so immensely beautiful
but in tides
they retreat to the sea depths
beyond the horizon
the sea surface pulls back
into the thundering of a dawn to the naked rocks
ebb and tide
will the sea ever retreat and disappear
or will the realm of demigods take over
and play the ode of eternal harmony
ebb and tide
the moon magic on earth


the orb of the earth
like a pool ball
on the green fabric and with innumerate journeys
revolves around itself and the sun
and around Giordano Bruno
the cognition of heavenly laws
is but Bruno’s game with a pool ball
describing the round and the oval
the random trajectories on the green fabric
in the perfect harmony of hidden laws
while the earth revolves
and repeats the same spinning
of pool balls
once underway,
it never ceases to stop
from one hole to another
and rolls all over, and then,
along the traces left
it returns;
Giordano Bruno plays the pool
with Kepler and Newton
in a randomly aerated mist
of ignorance
when shall the orb of the earth
like a pool ball
come to a stop?


on this day as well –
if days are to be counted as eternity
when everything is the same, and thus into the motionless abyss
the moments of happiness and joy leave –

on this day as well –
when all clocks have ceased to run
when there is no time
none is left over, slipped into the abyss
between the morning and the evening –

on this day as well –
there is no more day or night,
only a thin line connecting
into a giant ball of wool
and disappearing in a upward drift
like a meteorite thrown up
on this day as well –
as there is no day, no night either

on this day as well
the end of a poem


two days in a row
the celestial arch over a seaside town
was immaculately oval,
not round but resembling a hammer and an anvil
up and down, back and forth, a perfect harmony
of undisturbed celestial tunes
and turquoise sea
on the shores
on the shores an algae field stands out
now submerged, then dried out
in the beating of giant outbreaks
from the sea and the sky
and when they meet in the distant horizon
a moment of birth emerges from nowhere
one after another
algae and shells,
pearls and corals,
sea horses and heavenly clouds

but on the May morning celestial blue has emerged
and the turquoise of the sea
in a crimson dawn
everything is quiet, everything is calm
filled with the shimmer of thin fibres
connecting the universe according to unwritten laws
and the rebirth, re-creation from nothing.

when will a day come like the first two
with not a single cloud in the sky,
not a cloud or a whiff of wind across the sea
and when the sailors from the distant seas
dive into the bustle of Singapore
return to the North Sea
and head for Red Sea

when a day like this will come again
once, once more at least
so that from the depths of the light and the silence
through a crater it re-invents itself and rushes through the streets and squares in the morning
and occupies them for a moment or two
with its silence beyond any comprehension or description
how many sketches and still natures
how many written tunes
coming from underneath artists’ pens
how many grand palaces
from underneath diligent builders’ hands
and everything on that day
blossoms in a new beauty
in the new blue
in the park close to the centre of a town,
a birth or otherwise,
where ships sailed to
from the rims of the world
and set sails there

when will a day come
clear as a teardrop
holy as the Holy Grail
during the Last Supper

when will a day come
of a warm palm wrapped around
an innocent girl’s waist
when, when, when
and when poppies bloom in summer
and crickets start chirping
rattling their invisible slippers
Arabic, Indian, Japanese
each smaller than the next
each more golden than the next
thus rattle crickets
with their invisible fans
Arabic, Indian, Japanese

oh, when will the day come
the day when the sea and the sky
meet on the horizon
and commence a new, never heard before tune
to the eternal creation,
and give birth to thousands fish
with silver bellies in the wave
with seagulls chirping – oh, how they caw –
the cacophony of morning sounds
ever pouring into
a perfect harmony

when will the day come?
a jug of Mediterranean wine
from distant vineyards
on the verge of an imperial city
and a jar of olives
from distant olive groves
growing everywhere
with trees humping
towards the red dirt

lives of sailors
and singing songs
a little salt on a piece of brown bread
three-four olives
and a jug of Mediterranean wine
lives of sailors on the dry land

and lives of sailors on the sea
nautical knots
heavy anchors and drifted algae
slippery like iced surfaces
where winter ballerinas skate
heavy sails flipping back and forth
like hands of a navigating device
a huge clockwork
measuring days and nights
months and months passing
until the next port is reached
lives of sailors on the sea


yellow like a dandelion
dark green like an olive
dark green like algae
dark green like a lawn

yellow like a primrose
red like a poppy
red like a Christmas star
red like a rose

yellow like a sunflower
blue like a cornflower
blue like pansies
blue like the skies

white like a daisy
brown like earth
brown like a tree
brown like pine cones

white like lilies
gray like fog
gray like clouded sky
gray like stones washed out in sea salt

white like an orchid
transparent like water
transparent like ice
transparent like a veil

thus God created the world like a heavenly painter
and everything he created was in a colour
and as an accomplished painter he created
a heaven-like world
with everything in harmony, in eternal balance
God is a skilled painter of seasons
parallels and meridians
south and north poles
a temple for himself
where he paints a new world
what a picture is this going to be
terrestrial painters keep wondering
mixing colours to their best abilities
and the paradise of creation keeps blossoming in a soul
yellow like an orange

white like a rock
dark green like a cypress
red like an oleander
blue like a bluebell
brown like a brown bear
gray like a silkworm
transparent like an empty glass

once upon a time, long ago
God painted the world
in colours of seasons
now he is painting temples and mosques
and playing the game of creation


today is no day for writing
no, absolutely not
too many sleepless nights
and waking by the cradle of an unborn child
and too many dark clouds
about to release thunders
and whip around with lightning
and then in full force
from the very centre of the heavenly crater
rise the waves
to overflow the walkways, the park and the open seas
and pour over the pavement
and further
and deeper and higher into the opaque
weaving of the stormy night
there are thunders and lightning and hail
coming down on the olive groves and orchards

no, today is no day for writing
as I could only put down the fear and sadness
only weariness and aimlessness
only what I don’t want to say
and, as God is my witness,
I’d say I can still remember you
and I dream and long for and imagine
your eyes as blue as a cornflower
your warm palm on my breasts
and a watch on your wrist busily ticking away
chipping away those valuable moments never to return
I feel it, I feel it in my bones
I fear even to think that by some miracle
you may stop, you may halt and stall
in the soft palm
when roses blossom to your touch

no, today is no day for writing
blue eyes, a warm palm and a wrist watch
and a drawling Dalmatian speech
whispering, whispering while we make love
telling me beautiful things
whispering us love
having same dreams
but the clock is ticking away relentlessly
wound up only to last until our separation

no, today is no day for writing
there’s too much bitterness and too little pollen
for cherries to blossom in Japan in spring
oh, how distant that is beyond the supple horizon
of the Mediterranean islands
and so close to the time of your departure
closer than Japanese islands
and further than cherry blossoms

no, today is no day for writing
I will die some day
it’s inevitable
and an eternal law even though I bear no guilt
except for the blue eyes, a palm and a watch
I keep looking among passers-by
some hurrying after life
as if running from the death
oh, how hard it is to write about love and death
it has crept into my daily worries
my irrevocable presence in drops of sweat
and in the scent of your body
alongside mine
a scent of a man

no, if I keep doing it,
may God be my witness when I say
these redundant words I love you
and I want you and I long for you
and I shall not speak those words when we somewhere
halfway to Japan
meet by a miracle
and open a cherry blossom
petal by petal
white with pinkish hollows
where bees seek for pollen
thus impregnating Japanese islands
while the Mediterranean is blooming in oleanders
along the coastal walkways of Opatija
there’s a scent of myrtus
everything is fragrant there
and humming a mass chant a cappella
in a small chapel away from the garden
incorporated into a pavement like a maze

now I believe today shall turn into tomorrow
and once past shall become distant future
and everything shall remain the same
only I will die some day
and numerous letters I wrote for you
but never sent
I kept in an ornate wooden jewellery box

no, I don’t think I’ll keep them
today is no day for writing


crowd, hustle, noise, bustle
screeching brakes, rattling trams
puffing buses
everybody is scurrying
trying to get somewhere on time
at the crossroads in Donje Vrapče

there's an endless row of vehicles
we move by a meter, or two, or three
then we come to a complete halt
the light is green for the side alley
women are taking their children to kindergartens
men are talking on their mobiles with a flair of
everything is stirred up
everyone is hurrying in those few hours
of the morning rush from the outskirts into the town
and then gradually
things slow down, fall into their places
in the streets and along the rails
bus stops
everything simmers down, cools off, composes
the beating of the town
witnesses carefully
us being late again
and missing the view of the maze
of decrepit houses and monstrous office buildings
rendering together matchless cacophony
of a vivacious town
breathing only smoke and dust and dirt
here, we have finally reached our destination
we are only a minute-by-minute belated
only a meter-by-meter
and the town has miraculously healed from
lung cancer

I’ll die some day
I know it for sure
and what was
will be no more
and a chance acquaintance
won’t be petrified forever
everything will disappear without a trace
and in less than a minute of your watch
you’re never late
but are running out of time just like me
the only remnant left
will be an obituary at the building main gate and the end

nobody will stop
nobody will pause
no tram will stop either
nor rattling buses
only a rose
will die before even blossoming

that’s all
the town continues breathing
from Maksimir to Dubrava
just having released from the morning rush
slipping slowly into a drowse
the pulse is beating in a tranquil rhythm
the heart is healthy, lungs cured
only you and I will die some day
apart and lonely
in my wooden box for letters
and I will not mail them
for mailmen may find
a gold mine in the high postage fees
and you’ve been away for long
your name is no longer on my letter-box
and no late phone calls come from the other side of the town on a starry night

the world has seen bigger miracles
than a love lost at a half-point
to Donje Vrapče
lost metre-by-metre
and disappears away
in the midst of crowds, hustle, swarm and cram
of this town
where we should’ve never met

but the town lives on
forgets and lives and lives on
and that’s the end


a rose
a red rose
grows in the heavens above
and at first it's but a bud
then under the waves of time
crashing against some distant shores
making everything older
thus the rose blossoms overnight
at the time of blossoming
at the time while like a virgin
it slowly, very slowly
opens up its petals
and each petal is a single memory
and each petal is a single love
dying slowly
from a bud to a full bloom
and withers away on your soft palms
only the voice
the silvery and velvety voice
speaking thus it echoes
I’m leaving, do not try to seek for me
thus the rose wraps up in its thorns
blooms and blossoms until it wilts
and along the dying rose
your love perishes

a rose
a red rose
guarding off the infidels with its thorns
those who don’t believe in love
and only casually, randomly give away roses
with fingers crossed behind their backs
and roses will wither away
when the time comes
and bow its bush
to the dark brown earth
leave this world for a moment
and then reinvent itself in spring
and somebody will send a letter
a good-bye letter
with a bunch of roses

a rose
a red rose
you’re as resilient as a lump of earth
and once silence rules over
and crawls into secret hideaways
and nooks of the wild dirt
only an unmailed letter will remain
along with a rose
a red rose


a lighthouse
throws shimmering light
woven like a fine lace
in thin arrows
with deadly tips
a lighthouse is beaming all over the sea
and calling out to the sailors to break
dark, deep seas
showing signs
those incredible tokens
of naval journeys
thus defying church naves
travelling nowhere
no sighs of relief are awaiting them
when on the horizon
past the lighthouses
they see the land
where they are about to dock
drop the anchor
and moor
sailors will be relieved
to have travelled so far
somewhere in the Mediterranean
among Greek islands
they'll taste freshly picked olives
accompanied by a jug of crimson red wine
they set out to find mailmen
to deliver letters from afar
and pay in gold coins
they forged during their long journey
now they are busy with their cargo
not expected by mailmen
but by dockworkers
showing them around
where to unload their cargo
just like a lighthouse on the sea
lights on the land
point directions as not to get lost
the compass is circling round
devoid of any direction
it's so easy to lose the way
and unload it into the sea
if it weren't for lighthouses
those sturdy fellows
erecting from the rock
in the middle of nowhere
shining, shining
glimmering, glimmering
turning copper into gold
with golden arrows
of a lonely lighthouse
giving away light
that immense shimmering brightness
paths have been mapped
the journey is packed in the womb of a ship
while the helmsman
steers the ship
leaving ripples behind
until the first lighthouse
then the rudder is turned
perfectly aligned with the map and compass
because the lighthouse is throwing its glow
until it lightens up the path to the shore
the ship is cutting through the waves
of the immense salt water
because the lighthouse is on
and the lights are shining brightly ashore


in the land of MikiTikiPikilatia
a trick to the eternity was discovered
twirling around like a spinner
around its axis
and bending the lines outwards
until there’s no more breath
of the forces moving it about

in the land of MikiTikiPikitilatia
they invented the eternity
by a simple trick
by spinning around the axis
one swing encompassing
what a magical gift of the nature
of the cosmos and the logos
running into a vortex
rivers we can’t step into more than once
without turning
blind and deaf
wrapped up in cocoons
giving birth to butterflies

in the land of MikiTikiPikitilatia
everything is in its proper place
its inhabitants
diligently working their fields
and their grapes

collecting their valuable
their reinvigorating sap

in the ivory tower
in the land of MikiTikiPikitilatia
the most eminent knowledgeable people of the nature
grasped the spinner trick
that everything is twisting, bending, warping
in a precise order
of planets around the sun
they invented the eternity
the eternity rises from the labyrinth
where spinners
travel through the vast
dark and cold
in a precise order
with no delays
so the planets are never late
in their trajectories

in the land of MikiTikiPikitilatia
they invented the eternity
for their inhabitants they built
palaces of gold and silver,
of velvet and silk
and they still dwell there today
unless they are no longer alive
but death in the land of MikiTikiPikitilatia
is but a short step
from the mortal to immortal living
from the moment
stars shine in the eyes again
and a beaming sword cuts
through the last breath
and the soul freed from the ligatures of the body
flutters like a butterfly
dreaming magical dreams
for the eternity is here and there
both on earth and in heaven
and there’s no death
it’s just a revolution
of the spinner of the eternity


once upon a time
far, far away
for as far as the eye can reach
upwards and high
downwards into the depths
there lived a dwarf Tiki
among other dwarfs ;
what Tiki was
can only be described
from afar as Tiki liked being alone
and hugged by roses
writing melodies

thus the dwarf Tiki
in a lonely home outside the village
right next to the grove
stretching onwards
growing high and wide
painted his pictures

each picture was
a beat of a lonely heart
ticking in the rhythm of the sadness
and singing in the deep alto of yearning
and in the pitch of a bugle it outvoices
the whole orchestra of joy
and he paints a dragon
and a serpent
and the curse of a red apple in paradise

thus he paints
his own immortality
the eternity is but a picture to him
the image of eternal yearning
making the world go around
the created and the uncreated
the existing and the non-existing
what is and what isn’t

the eternity is but a turn of a spinner


in the far heavenly pastures
from the well of a river
glittering silver fish drink
in the depths
lions and tigers
in the shallow waters
elephants join as well
days are long and searing hot
somewhere in Africa
it rains heavily
a song is sung
in the far heavenly pastures


on the green lawns
somewhere in the eternity
Kepler, Newton and Giordano Bruno meet
for another game of pool
and can’t comprehend
how time can expand
like a long anchor chain
settling firmly among rocks
and gravel and sand
keeping the ship just recently
moored in the port of timelessness
Kepler believes there’s no time at all
even though he’s aged and died
and as a meritorious immortal
he was sent to the eternity
if there is the eternity
then there is no time
all in one
space-time equation
is valid and
results in – endless

Newton is uncertain about the eternity
while rubbing the tip of his cue with chalk
doubting whether it would last
as everything that came to being
has to perish
but now he’s playing the game of pool in the eternity
and fearing
the time soars upwards
into the well of existence
for the eternity is a form of existence
both timelessness and immortality

Giordano Bruno
rose to the eternity
in the flames
at the scaffolds
and now he’s playing the pool
to last forever
he’s the only with no doubts
for he is immortal

the eternity, everlasting game of time and space
takes the immortals
into its arms
gifting them with the eternal search
for the origins
in the green lawns
somewhere in the eternity