[转载]Mr.Miroslav Kirin,from Croatia (克罗地亚)

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[Croatia] Miroslav Kirin
The ground – still wet from the afternoon shower. Each little grass-blade persistently returns the raindrops to the sky.
Having overheard this harmless dialogue, we failed to notice the nightfall - suddenly it was there, between two cups of tea.
The clouds cleared up and I invited you to go out and watch the stars with me.
Little do we know about them but it won’t diminish the pleasure of watching them.
Later on we resume drinking tea on the porch.
On the floor – like an empty wallet, a crushed frog. Seems I brought it
on the sticky sole of my sandal. Didn’t hear a thing (as if the death of a live being ought to be audible).
It would never happen to Indians, you say, they walk barefoot out of respect for tiny beings.
I will never walk the night garden again, I decide.
Why don’t you write a poem about it, you add having finished reading a collection of ancient Chinese poetry.
But the thing is, how to write a poem about a crushed frog out of respect for Chinese poets?
They don’t allow me to read on the tram, especially you, with your hair swinging left-right.
You’re tossing it onto the page I am reading, splaaash, all the words vanish and I have to look up at you.
What would Jane Hirshfield say – why did I stop reading in the middle of her poem To Judgment: An Assay?
You change my life with your hair
“as eating an artichoke changes the taste/ of whatever is eaten after”, says Jane.
Hair is of a rather odd nature, seemingly dead: you can cut it, you can burn it. Yet, still grows.
And then my lively fingers comb it, get entangled in it, their life gets entangled, someone else’s life does, they change their taste.
Suppose I suddenly wish to see your face as you’re tossing your hair.
At its best I can only hope to see the flash of your hands, that will come out of the blue
to raise your hair,
comb it with the fingers, and then let it mercilessly
splash
like foamy water from
the bucket thrown out into the street at the end of the shift
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