[blueella]

Izrasli su moji prijatelji na jednom stablu
u zelenim bluzama i roza bluzama
u tamnomordim hlacama i svijetlomodrim hlacama:
vise neki kao jabuke, neki kao kruske,
neki kao narance ili kao grozdje.
Ja tresem stablo i moji se prijatelji ruse
i, bome, ubijaju se
ali – mora da sam bedast – to mi se sad cini
kao jedini nacin komunikacije s njima.



My friends are growing on a tree
wearing green shirts and pink shirts,
dark blue trousers and light blue trousers:
some of them are hanging like apples, or like pears,
some like oranges, all others like grapes.
I shake the tree and my friends fall down
and, by God, they kill themselves
but – I must be stupid – for the moment it seems to be
the only way to communicate with them.