was it a good or bad libido that led
the morning twilight of the
young targeteers
to the untrodden peaks of night
in Orthodoxy's wild thickets
in the dense clusters of panic's cypresses
in the moral projection
of a harsh Fate in the colonnade of reveille and lethargy?
Who was the instigator
of the mutiny?
of the rumour?
of the passion?
the orator?
were they loyal to the command
- of who else? of the commanders -
fine patricides and pederasts
with only the
parasemantics of necrophilia
as justification
in the successive - incredibly harsh - attacks
of the doxographers?
Perhaps - listen, o lads, - the industrious painters'
metaphysical realm
is to be found hidden in the hanging paintings?
And while the war hatchets
rain down upon heads
and the ravines hum
with the ruin of battle
and the hymns
of saintly warriors
a voice is heard:
"Mirko Kralis, what are you after?
this is no playground:
this is the Balkans"
Translated by David Connolly
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