“Zapis”
Translated From Croatian by Mario Frömml

In the mornings I call my mother.
Or in the afternoons, on my way back from
the mosque; the scent of blossoms rushes
through a crack in my car window.

White tree tops line the streets
like the kind words I often miss.

It dawns Here when
Bosnia prays the zuhr .

A day is at its zenith when Their
maghrib brings it to its close.  

Time is Here a gold dust.

Prospectors all over the place pitch
their tents on the slopes of their days.

Gold, burried in the pits of time,
is running out, ever so dwindling.

I notice that the sky is blue,
and green is the grass, the soil
so wet, right after the rain.

Thus, everything’s the same,
and — then again — nothing is.

I do not speak out of melancholy,
but for the sake of Truth.

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