Na igličavo oštrom vrhu sveta
golom kao stara, oglodana kost,
praznom kao oko isplakano do čistote,
visi bronzano zvono
i pod njim sedi on.
Žega podnožja se dotle ne uspinje,
ne probija se ni vetar da donese kišu ili sneg.
Isparenja ostataka vremena, rastegnuta preživanjem, zamaglila su vidik.
Tišina je klatno koje odzvanja: Blagoslov! Kazna! Blagoslov! Kazna!
Sasvim mu je svejedno,
u svakom pravcu horizont je podjednako daleko.
Nije se pomerio eonima
opipavajući zgužvane nabore unutrašnjosti čovečanstva.
Izbrisane mape saznanja bejahu prepunjene uredno nanizanih mudrih reči,
skršene police pretrpane tablica gusto složenih brojeva,
silovatelja finih pregiba postojanja.
Nestanak napadno očiglednih jednakosti i jasnoća
razotkrio je neki čudnovato suveren red.
Otkako je pobegao iz utočišta prvobitnog slepila,
sagledao je veoma usku ograničenost svetla,
pa njome i potpunu nedokučivost mraka.
Spasilac sveta,
koji ne može biti spasen,
sred svakodnevne tihe, samotne golgote,
ophrvan čežnjom za neukroćenom nevinošću.
Doduše, bez kajanja.
Ćutanje svetog čoveka
vrhunska je milost prema ljudima.
Poslednji stadijum je spokojno gubljenje potrebe za smislom,
odbacivanje štaka.
Na vrhu sveta što odiše radošću,
napetom kao zmija pred skok,
sazrelom do padanja,
sveti čovek čeka naslednika
da ga usmrti i oslobodi.
Sunce će se opet roditi
i preokrenuti vreme na početak.
Holy man
On the needle-sharp top of the world
bare as an old, gnawed bone,
as empty as an eye that has been wept clean,
a bronze bell hangs
and he sits under it.
The heat of the foothills doesn’t rise that far,
not even the wind breaks through to bring rain or snow.
The vapors of the remains of time, stretched by rumination, have fogged the view.
Silence is a pendulum that echoes: Blessing! Punishment! Blessing! Punishment!
It’s all the same to him,
the horizon is equally far in every direction.
He hasn’t moved in eons
feeling the crumpled folds of humanity’s interior.
The erased maps of knowledge were overfilled with neatly arranged words of wisdom,
broken shelves overcrowded with tables of densely arranged numbers,
rapists of the fine bends of existence.
Disappearance of strikingly obvious equalities and clarities
revealed some strangely sovereign order.
Ever since he fled from the refuge of primal blindness,
he saw a very narrow confinement of light,
and with it the complete inscrutability of darkness.
Savior of the world,
who cannot be saved,
in the middle of the daily quiet, solitary Golgotha,
overwhelmed with longing for untamed innocence.
Although, without remorse.
The silence of the holy man
it is a supreme mercy towards people.
The last stage is the serene loss of the need for meaning,
discarding the crutches.
On top of the world that exudes rejoicing,
tense as a snake before jumping,
ripe for the fall,
the holy man is waiting for an heir
to kill him and set him free.
Sfyontull dancing under sandveil rain 