for Dragan Velikic
He laughed because he was able to be everything and nothing.
He played, threw rocks at street lights,
wore out his sneakers on the concret playground,
scraped his knees, ran away from home along the river,
stood at the edge of a cliff, entered a cave.
From the cage of his childhood he walked out suddenly
and again played: traveled, drank retsina
on the beach in Salonika, tasted the pleasures of summer,
stood trembling in a room over an unclothed Russian girl.
Now he plays without words, without laughter or anger,
shocked by human stupidity and cruelty.
He yearns for the ripeness of October afternoons
with their diamond-like icy and silent perfection
at the conclusion of this tired century - our loathsome lair.
He played, threw rocks at street lights,
wore out his sneakers on the concret playground,
scraped his knees, ran away from home along the river,
stood at the edge of a cliff, entered a cave.
From the cage of his childhood he walked out suddenly
and again played: traveled, drank retsina
on the beach in Salonika, tasted the pleasures of summer,
stood trembling in a room over an unclothed Russian girl.
Now he plays without words, without laughter or anger,
shocked by human stupidity and cruelty.
He yearns for the ripeness of October afternoons
with their diamond-like icy and silent perfection
at the conclusion of this tired century - our loathsome lair.
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