proza, roman

GUDVILOVE VOLJE I NEVOLJE 1, studija o podvojenom umu, odlomak


GUDVILOVE VOLJE I NEVOLJE

I

Jednom, a to ne beše tako davno, u godini Zaraza, uhvatio kašalj izvesnog Gud Vila, ambasadora dobre volje sa Balkana.

Vaistinu, ne beše taj Gudvil bilo ko. Govorilo se da je potomak cara Nazira Alija, tvorca tamilske epike iz Pondičerija, na jugoistoku Indije,  a kako se obreo na Balkanu beše tajna, kao i mnogo toga u njegovom kratkom, no čudnovatom životu. Njegov lični pisar svedoči da se u mladosti bavio pesništvom i bez sumnje imao je dara…  Govorili su mu: “Gudvile, tvoje pesme imaju epsku notu zapretenu u jezovitoj, nakostrešenoj lirici”.

To behu podmetačine.. Gudvil beše čistokrvni Balkanac, po obe porodične linije do seobe Slovena, a možda i dalje.

Ali, kako objasniti the pure magičnost stiha, do legendom. Tako pisati, pa to je uskovitlan svet,  kovitlac neslućenih spojeva. Za to, dakako, moraju biti kriva I krvna zrnca. Takvo lirsko umeće, takav kvalitet stila, usud puteva ukrštenih balkansko -istočnjačkih mudrosti, jedino je objašnjenje.

Na to bi se Gudvil uhvatio za glavu. Koren njegove bure u glavi bila je jedino migrena, branio bi se pred savremenicima. A i tih par epova, to je tek tako.. došlo mu.. otelo mu se slučajno, ne sa namerom, niti poreklom iz kakve egzotične, poetskom magijom očaravajuće zemlje. “Ja u dokolici, onako, slučajno..”, branio se Gudvil-  Iza nečasnog umeća mora da stoji stav, markantna rana, sudar dve vere, dve nacije i tako unedogled, odluči se Gudvile, da li si s nama ili nisi?

Poboja se Gudvil da mu ne prikače  status izroda, genetske greške i slično.

“Da tebe neko pita Gudvile, ti bi živeo u Golveju, Edinburgu ili u Kermaretenu, a ne sa nama”, pljuštale su gorke optužbe na koje bi Gudvil ostao nem, izmučenog lika.

“Ja.. samo želim da se uklopim..”, sanjario je –“O sudbo, zašto!”

I zareče se da će se manuti pera, sve dok mu i poslednje u glavi, odsanjano, zamišljeno bivstvo u samotnome pesničkome domu ne ispari u raskošno napuštajućem stilu uvređenog pesnika, dela sebe koga se gnušao i koji je morao da nestane, taj samonametljivi brbljivac, mađioničar, dramatično NIŠTA,  nedonosilac para, a donosilac tegoba i problema na račun njegove karijere i ugleda u društvu “Od sad samo činjenice i to gole. “ – zakle se on na nudizam u činjenicama, te kako učini, bi mu lakše, zaspa jedne noći tako I probudi se sutra kao novi čovek.

Gudvil (nekad beše) jedan od onih tipova koji deluju opasno na prvu loptu.  I na drugu!, zahvaljujući  uznemirujućoj pojavi i nehajnoj grubosti u ophođenju na koju bi mu ponekad ukazivali..  iz učtivosti.

Tad bi se Gudvil uznemirio. Verovao je da su to podsvesni trzaji proterane pesničke ćudi.

Beše to sitni (uznemiren pred zvucima, bojama i ljudima, reklo bi se usitnjen ) čovečuljak krvavobele ćele sa dve očne jame koje, istovremeno, kao da streme u dubinu, dok nabrekla zenica iz očiju ponosno štrči kao slomljen durbin, obuhvatajući šaroliki svet četiri ogolela zida.

Njegove slepoočnice bile su toliko blizu da bi delovale slepljene jedna za drugu, a između njih bi istrčao nos, tamilsko nasleđe, koji bi, kako bi ko govorio, pravio čudne pokrete, da, baš taj Gudvilov NOS koji je imao vlastitu volju i prkos uprkos Gudvilovim željama!, Gudvil bi krotio njegovu volju tako što se u njega neretko udarao, a bogu se molio da mu ispadne sa lica za vjeki vjekov…  – Kad bi govorio, zvuk koji bi izlazio iz napućenih USTA beše sličan nekom mlevenju, katkad, kao kad bi neko na sitno strugao orahe, možda njegov lični kuvar..) ili, još čudnije, u Gudvilov glas beše utkana još neverovatnija nota, kao da ga prati senka kakvog podsmevača koji istresa orahe iz zadnjeg džepa i pravo buku i tresku, te se ne zna kad govori Gudvil,  a kad mu se tamna senka Podsmevača ruga.

Sve je bilo protiv njega.

Pride i na samu pomisao da mu se neki zli genije podsmeva, a da se ne može uhvatiti, niti utvrditi poreklo takvog prokletstva, trzao bi se u velikom strahu nalik na buđenje iz košmarnog sna, jer Gudvil beše bojažljiv čovek.

„A bojažljiv čovek ne može biti tamilski stihovladar. Kakav je to pesnik sa ovakvom glavurdom. Pogledajte Bajrona, kako je lep. Hrom, ali lep. Opet, baviti se pesništvom, a izgledati..  gudvilovski… Ne ide.“, raspričao bi se u kafani i osećao da ga preplavljuje val topline i razumevanja njegovih sugrađana.

I tako je ponavljao sebi u bradu istu stvar, svake godine, u isto vreme, na istom mestu, sve dok poslednji trag sumnje ne iščile iz svačijeg srca, a oduševljenje je došlo do klimaksa kad se Gudvil pohvalio da se u slobodno vreme bavi izrazima i razlomcima, govoreći da su dva puta dva četiri i jedan – pet!

Gudvil je imao slabost, uistinu strast koja bi mu, ostvarivši bi se, kao uteha ležala na srcu i milovala bi mu pretkomore, zalegavši i na poneku popucalu komoru, hraneći ga spokojem kao mirom nahranjena misao.

Još kad bi se sve to zalilo pivcem sa uvek raspoloženim društvom u Udruženju Dekart! Možda doguram i do Ministra! Može se reći da je Gudvil imao neobični fetiš na čije bi ostvarenje neretko uzbuđeno disao!

Želeo je da bude ugledna ličnost. Jednog dana i Šef Države! A pošto o njegovom političkom usponu u ovoj priči neće biti reči, jer bi štura olovka još šturije mašte njegovog pisara zapela u brojna tumaranja u rečima i protivrečnosti golicajući u Gudvilu nepreboljenu boljku zbog koje nije nikad uspevao da do kraja bude srećan, odlučujem se na obaveštenje, krajno rešenje zapetljancije njegove komplikovane tamilsko – balkanske prirode i jedno suštastveno: Uspeo je. I bio je sretan.

Sve do tog kobnog dana u godini Zaraza.

Kako se razbole Gudvil, a beše to u petnaestoj godini raskošne političke karijere o kojoj u ovoj priči neće biti reči, odlučio je Gudvil da odleži bolest, odloživši posetu Tunguziji gde je počesto odlazio u svojstvu Ambasadora Dobre Volje.  Prođe nedelja, prođoše dve.. Ne samo da nije prestajao da kašlje, nego poče i da kija!

Odluči da poseti Državnoga Doktora, koji je izlečio problematično afričko pleme od opasne vrste gripa, da mu prepiše lekove.

  • Doktore, rećiću vam šta je u pitanju, ali da čuvate tajnu, jer u pitanju je i čast i nečast mog dobrog imena. Toliko sam na njemu radio, deceniju i po, da zablista!… – kršio je ruke Gudvil.
  • Kunem se, Apolonom lekarom, Asklepijem, Higejom, i Panakejom, i za svedoke uzimam sve bogove, i sve boginje za svedoke da neću ni zucnuti – prekrsti se Doktor životvornim krstom časnim.

Tad mu Gudvil reče: – Vi znate, Doktore, da sam u mladosti bio pesnik.

Doktor se namršti. –To je bila neka vrsta iracionalne vere. Poricanje sistema i zastrašujuća aktivnost.

  • E pa ja sam se te strave podsetio.. ovih dana.. ja sam.. ja sam… – Gudvil se zaplaka –
  • Niste valjda! Gudvile!

Gudvil pokajnički kimnu glavom.

-Pošast se vratila. Krene ona na mene, a ja krenem na papir, ruka se sama pomera, protiv moje volje, ispisuje epove o egzistencijalnom rubu, te mi nekakvo bezimeno biće u uvo šapuće o ružnoći čovečanskoj, te hajde Gudvile da im se svima narugamo tvojim neupitno britkim umom, a sve to izreče bestelesna zver neka u meni, potuljenom zloćom i navali na mene rečima: Nosinom zaoraj po rani, iščeprkaj gnoj, te me zainspirisa da napišem pamflet Udruženja vanvremenskih pesnika kurvara, viktorijanaca i futurista trubadura, a nagon me odvede do crkvenih vrata i natera me đavo neki da zakucam slobodoumnih i vatrenih 95 teza u dubokom lirskom izlivu gde se jasno govori o prvobitnoj misli u čoveku, hvali i veliča sanjar, spasonoša i bakljonoša celokupnog roda ljudskog.

U ime viktorijanaca izveličah u tezama tminu i zakleh se na obožavanje kako zalaska, tako i svitanja sunca, dobra i zla, pohvala ljubavi, strasti i dubokoj žrtvi koja donosi savršenu pobedu.

I rekoše mi glasovi u tami, a od toga počeh da kijam silno i dok sam kijao, ja san u tezama sročio da svaka ideja mora da se izrazi pa ma kakva bila.

Ja sročih zabranu konvencionalnosti i upriličih gozbu saosećajnosti umetnosti, veličajući slobodu i odgovornost ka istoj.

Sve ostalo je paradiranje naučenog jer su duhovni i kulturni integritet na prvom mestu, a ostalo, nešto kao crkva, država, norma, sistem, institucija trice, te da ih treba pod hitno ukinuti, pojedinca smestiti u Prirodu da je izučava dok stihuje zagledan u oblak i.. Doktore?”

a363f00fc60e087b015f8a9cb0499e86

Sagovornik ga je posmatrao bledo, zatrašeno, izraza lica Preživelog iz uklete kuće.

“Gd.. gde ste ih.. zz..a..zakucali? – toliko beše zastrašujuče sve što je dobri doktor čuo da mu puče stetoskop, a zamalo i srce.

“Tu, među prečkama na masovnoj hrastovini, iznad gvozdene brave…”

“Na vratima Glavnoga Hrama Kajafa?”

“Želite li da čujete druge teze o prostituciji u futurističkom bordelu robota i njegovom uticaju na misaono- refleksivno..”

“Nikako. Bolest je uznapredovala. Sad me brine što je to video naš arhimandrit.. možda čak I Šef Države. On uvek u crkvu zakorači pre no što petlovi zapevaju, da se za nas pomoli”

“Bez brige. Moj kuvar je odneo sramotan dokaz bolesti. Pratio me je kako lutam noću sam, ubledelog lika i iskeženih zuba, te nešto, veli zakucavam..”

“Velite da se ne sećate zakucavanja?”

“Nisam bio svedok ovog poroka. Imadoh pomračenje i ne sećam se ničeg”

“Asklepija mi, uklonite sve olovke iz kuće, neka vaš kuvar udvostruči stražu.”, Doktor povrati idiličnu pribranost, sakupi ostatke raspukloga stetoskopa, još preporuči Gudvilu da vežba razlomke i izraze i nekoliko puta dnevno ponavlja reči poput: dva cela i jedna polovina i minus jedan celo i jedna šestina, te će zamreti u njegovom umu takve nečiste sintagme, a on opet biti onaj stari… “

Nastaviće se…

Advertisements
Standard
art, play, prose, short story, story

The Artists


‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Wagner, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Wagnerian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’

Mary Lynne allowed herself a minute smile and crossed her legs at the table.

The man tried his hardest not to look at her lovely, thin legs.

‘You start the text off strong, with a title that cuts to the chase, that doesn’t wander. The readers think that you will…that you’ll…’ His frowning face softened. ‘As early as the first, then the second paragraph to expand upon, to provide arguments to the qualification you laid…laid out, oh dear, I’m losing myself…in the title, yeah, that’s the word, IN THE TITLE! He gathered his wits for a second and started banging his head on the table – and yet nothing.’

il_570xN.1015046746_brah

Vincent D’Onofrio (Cholo) with Mathilda May (Stephanie) in the movie Naked Tango the end of the film.

https://www.etsy.com/il-en/listing/276627324/black-and-white-nude-acrylic-painting

‘You say that he bullied his colleagues, and also that you cannot cite a single example, because there is nothing written, or disclosed. Funny, one would wonder: where did the daring claim come from that the man was a witnessed sadist when there are neither examples nor evidence of this? ’

The man extended his hands towards her. ‘Oh, Maryyyy…I will strangle youuuuu! With a wire string, dude!’

The man panicked. He grabbed her throat. He screamed. ‘I’m panicking! I’m panicking! I have to jump!’

And he jumped at her mumbling how truly unhappy he is.

‘Look at her, how easily she gives herself to me! You are no longer so prideful! Get yourself up you low-browed dunce! Oh if only a wind could blow right now to lift your skirt up, and here I am having to put up the effort, they’ll even call this rape!’

‘And it would’ve been romantic’ Mary Lynne said coquettishly.

‘Right, like in Tannhäuser. Sing to me, sing to me, be my…Wilhelmina Schroeder!’

‘Is that like Venus?’

He lifted her leg in lieu of responding as if he were ploughing a field. He flung it over his left shoulder.

Venus sang.

‘Do forgive me never more will IIIIIIIII

Come to me if fortune’s what you seeeeeeeek’

p03v9r6j

Sophie Koch as Venus in Tannhäuser

‘My fortune…’ He uttered between heavy panting and then flung her left leg over his right shoulder (where the other one went, he wasn’t sure). ‘My fortune lies in Mary!’

And he added:

‘I also think that the text would have had more impact if Hitler hadn’t been mentioned. What, there’s no bloody way that Stalin, who was none the lesser a monster and a murderer than Hitler, didn’t love Glinka or Borodin, or more likely Mussorgsky. That does not mean that these composers were vile men. There is a sizable possibility that Idi Amin loved Tartini or Paganini, why not. There are counterexamples as well. Beethoven loved Napoleon for years, he even devoted ‘Eroica’  to him, after which he got disappointed, gave up on Bonaparte.’

‘There.’ Mary said, after an explosive finish a la Eroica. ‘Now, will we do some Wilhelm Friedman for me, sweet lover?’

‘Start!’ With Mary’s dress at an arm’s reach, he quickly put on a dress and made-up and groomed in a manga style he lifted his hairy legs up high, swearing that the Cliven depilatory cream was not handy.

‘You know how much I care for hygiene!’ He wept.

‘Cold waxing is the best with the Tiger tire glue.’ She smiled. ‘Now have a listen…’

‘Oof…’

Between Expressions by Hamish Blakely

‘Wilhelm Friedman was spat upon to the point of pain. A boozehound died poor…(SIGHING) They then admit that he was the greatest instrumentalist of his age. The dude hit the clavier, not a single person could challenge him. A biography that on the surface looks like the buckish bios of notable rock musicians. Oy vey, there was a movie as well, I think the title of it is, in fact, Wilhelm Friedman, where he, apparently, suffers and struggles (SHE SIGHS LOUDER AND MORE PASSIONATELY) as a gifted son of a well-known father. The catch is that his father was nowhere near as noteworthy when Friedman was playing, and his problem was neither living in his father’s nor in his brother’s shadow (Mozart said about Carl Philip Emanuel: ‘He is the father, we are all his children’ (OH GOD!!!!), which reckless historians transposed as Mozart talking about Bach, and he didn’t.) (BOTH SIGH AND MOAN), but with all those flies, fleas and planktons that make up life and make up us humans, like a living organism, dead center in that life itself. Leopold Mozart, Wolfgang’s pops, picturesquely and colloquially described the habitus of Friedman Bach. ‘A remarkable musician, an unrivalled composer, but a heavy, heavy drinker.’’

He was panting. ‘I love Händel a lot. I have some undocumented version of his Water Music, therefore I do not know either who performed it or when, and the version is, just, it’s the balls, it tears ass… I listened to various different versions, but most of them are shit, can’t even come close to what I have. Händel and Telemann, by the way, I view as bigger composers than Bach. ’

Lars von Trier’s Antichrist was playing in the background during all of this. An erect phallus added to the magic and romance of the two. Candles were too much with all of these other stimuli. At the peak of arousal, they were slapping each other, arguing which composer is better.

antichrist

‘Boozehound, spendthrift, died poor, boozehound, spe…e…eh, dear husband, I think that will do for the evening.’

And while he was putting on man’s clothing, Mary Lynne sang Messiaen: Turangalîla-Symphony (Joie du sang des étoiles) in front of the mirror, the director of the Artist’s Trilogy Ron Gabe Bonester went upsy-daisy and with a ‘Camera, cut!’ he marked the end of the shoot.

‘I gave you too much freedom! None of that was in the script!’ He paused for thought. ‘Now you, kid, get Mary a gun to blow your brains out!’

The actress went upstart. ‘That wasn’t the deal!’

Bonester shouted in response to this. ‘Nobody questions my authority! For two hours behind that there…glass compartment…the Australian minister of culture is sitting and waiting for the script which will present his arduous devotions at the Art Conference focusing on non-profit management. Our country cannot develop economically without innovation in that particular field. And education! Who do you think you are? Who bought me this Canon EOS 6D to shoot you guys? Get serious, woman, and continue the oral, along with Chopin and your husband.’

‘But…we are ARTISTS!’

crcreepymonalisa-copy-511722

‘An overrated term. I do not exchange my ideas with the personnel. We directors laud a vibrant and growing creative economy!’

Then both He and She approached him and pounded him into the ground, while Bonester slid on the floor in his oversized suit.

‘Shall we continue where we left off?’

‘You mean…while the Minister Behind the Compartment observes?’

‘And then a gun to the head, like Romeo and Juliet. Or was it poison? But let’s not split hairs.’

‘That would probably be a mistake, but…as I said… we are artists, dear colleague, and a happy couple in Art. We cannot live on without the drama.’

‘And voyeurs,’ someone whispered, sat in a chair where the now unconscious director lay and followed this up with a thunderous applause.

Then the trio continued the show agreeing that the Husband should be given any old name.

Mary’s gaze flew up and she said: ‘He will be named Frederic. Like our unborn son.’

Nobody objected, therefore Frederic could begin.

The Minister, who physically reminded one of the head electricians, would record something with an expensive video camera. But under the condition that he played Chopin.

‘Bah bah, the Best Boy.’ Both send passionate kisses to him. Then, with an erotic play, they embraced.

‘Artists, such artists,’ mumbled the Mysterious Traveler, the Spectator, the Third Without Whom You Can’t Go On, from the artistic Kingdom of Heaven.

But Mary Lynne and Frederic were in their own world, wreathed in music and gifted with a gift worthy of the Gods.

The camera buzzed. Reflectors flashed.

6b9f918032e2324a623bdc89772c8205

SCENE 25:

‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Bach, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Bachian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’

SCENE 26:

‘…as far as the Bach family is concerned, I love Wilhelm Friedman and Carl Philip Emanuel, they rule, each in their own way, but I dug up some other guys as well – for instance, Johann Bernhardt Bach is also excellent. In the classical era, Johann Christian Bach stood out. Imagine that wondrous family tree, this beast of a family, which branched out during a good hundred-and-so-year period, and bore nothing but interesting musical fruit. Crazy.’ (SCREAM)

CUT.

Standard
poetry

DRIPPING WINDMILLS (Serbian Original Included)


“For tomorrow you will live forever”

*

Snatch your mind from the clutches of the wolves
That have been observing and watching you
And fasten it with quiet dignity
Snatch it with a torrent of your body
Then wipe the sweat off your brow
While the beasts lure away
And may it be your last address
Your last stronghold before the voices of the buffoons
That boom at first
To make a pharynx out of your ears
So they could vomit cozily and instinctively
All over you
While glorifying the spiteful noise of theirs
And bursting with exultation
Herds of pigs look forward to your fall
But you just mute the miserable noise
Of their shameful fermentation
With no laughter appease those who’d like to
Sit on your head
Who would snarl then
Shamelessly accepting
The last cadaver out of the darkness
May the redness of a total autumn flood you
Of an autumn tearful and adored
Confronted in the dusk with the secrets of shadows
And then all will pass
Just take a little breath of fresh air
And rip out their Secret with your ears.
Let them scream
Helpless and empty
Finally.
And while they’re grabbing you
You break loose with your teeth
With your nails
And you foam and keep on pushing them
With your elbows
With all this stuff
Past and future
For the sake of your time that is arriving
And overcoming them
Your deed will extol you
Like a spark of kindling wood
Which haunts the serpents tails
When driest is your mouth
And thirst torments you
And you’re starving

maxresdefault (1)
It’s them
Them who
Brooding over your head
Await the last wind that will
Bring the cry out of your throat
And they’ll feast then
Peacefully and self-admiringly
Over your carrion
Don’t you let them do that.
Instead, quarter their bull heads
Make them fly away
Let them merge with that
Treasonous air
Oh, did they sway you once
Upon a time
While you languished in hopelessness
While heart of yours was starless
Then, when you suffered
Assigning them your word
At their mouths you looked
And you shrieked and teetered
Consumed by hangover
And they plowed your throat while
Their unskilled hands chanted hollowly
Writing lyrics with your own blood
Never let them do that again
You just silence that greedy mob of pigs
Which calls itself a pack
Mountain wolves they call themselves
And for your glory of tomorrow
After all the hushed-up vileness
The One that never dies will take care of
The One that resides in your deed
Like a chaste bride
For tomorrow you will live forever
And a fog will devour the bulls
The burden of time will blow to smithereens
All those thieves anchors and gory pits
Those growing arms that are grabbing your sleeve
And pulling you
Browsing the back on which youre laying
Coiled and voiceless
Time will doom them
With your new verses
It will write on the crown of their heads
And point a finger right in their eye
Because they should have never
Attacked a dragon
Those shameless plucked eagles
And the living fire of your proud spirit
Will swallow them with all their
Confidence
While you climb in the solitude of prayer
Reaching the uttermost cognition
God Himself will save you from the evildoers
Ill-fated hearts
Don’t you shed a single tear
Don’t let a sound escape from your lips
Rejoice because you’re a poet
And Gods inspired you for eternity
You will live when there’s no more roars
And in the darkest night you will live
And you will breath peacefully
And you will love.

***

SERBIAN:

Otrgni svoj um iz kandži vukova
što te snatre i motre
I zakuj ga tišinom dostojanstva
Otrgni ga bujicom tela
Potom obriši znoj sa čela
dok se zveri ne odmame
I neka to bude tvoje poslednje obraćanje
I uporište pred lakrdijaškim glasovima što počinju
Najpre huktajući
da ti od ušiju prave ždrelo
Za njihovo prijazno nagonsko povraćanje
Po tebi
Dok veličaju svoju gadnu buku
i kipte od slavlja
Raduju se krda svinja tvome padu
Al’ utišaj tu žalosnu buku
stidnoga im vrenja
Smiri bez smeha pomahnitale koji bi
Na glavu da ti sednu
I na njoj da reže dok zadnji leš tmina primaju bez stida
Nek te oblije crvenilo potpune jeseni koja beše ti plačna i obožavana
U sumrak pred tajnama seni
Dok to ne prođe
Samo malo udahni vazduha svežeg
I ušima iščupaj Tajnu njihovu.
Neka zavrište nemoćni i prazni
Konačno.
I dok te ščepaju
Otrgni se zubima noktima
Zapeni, guraj ih
Laktovima svim stvarima
pređašnjim i budućim
Za tvoje vreme koje nadolazi
i nadilazi ih
Tvoje će delo da te veliča
kao kap netom zapaljene luči
što prži repove zmija
Kad su ti usta najsuvlja
I žeđ te mori i od gladi
skapava duša tvoja
To oni
To oni zamišljeni nad tvojom glavom
Iščekuju poslednji vetar kojim će ti probiti krik iz grla
I večeraće spokojni i sobom zadivljeni
Nad tvojom lešinom
Ne daj im da to učine

Raščereči im bikovske glave
neka polete
I neka se stope zajedno
sa izdajničkim vazduhom
Jednom te pokolebaše
dok bejaše ti bez nade
I bez zvezda u srcu
dok si samo patio izgovaravši im reč
Usta si im gledao dok si vrištao i srljao u mamurluku
I riljali su ti po grlu dok su pojali svoje nevešte ruke
Krvlju tvojom
Nek ne čine to opet
Utišaj tu gramzivu rulju svinja
Koja sebe čoporom naziva
I planinskim vucima
A za tvoju sutrašnju slavu nakon prećutkivanja svih podlosti
Brinuće onaj koji nikad ne umire
I u tvome delu sedi
kao čedna nevesta
Ti zauvek sutra živ ćeš biti
Poješće magla bikove
Razneće breme vremena
Ta lopovska sidra i krvave jame
Te rastuće ruke koje ti ščepaju rukav i vuku te
Koje ti brste leđa na kojima ležiš
u muku savijen

Vreme će im sudbinu ukleti
tvojim stihovima novim
Zapisaće im na temenu
Uperiće im prst pravo u oko
Da nisu smeli na zmaja nasrtati
Te orlušine bez stida
i tako pouzdane
Spaliće ih vatra živa
tvog gordoga duha
U samoći molitve dok se uspinješ
ka svome saznanju
Sam bog će te spasti od zlotvora tuđih hudih srca
Ni kap suze ne ispusti da potekne
Ni glasa ne ispusti
Raduj se jer si pesnik
I od bogova nadahnut stvor za večna vremena
Živećeš i kad ne bude bilo urlika
I kad noć bude najmračnija
Živećeš
I disaćeš spokojno i volećeš

Standard