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Najbudalastija tuga među tugama

U ovu noć, kad se magla u daljinama
zgrušava i razliva,
kad niko i ne pokušava
da mi razume u zenicama ove varnice,
nisam, valjda, uobrazio
da sam jedini ovako
lud i naivan, i divan,
divan kao izlog periferijske starinarnice
u kome ima mina.

Vetre,
izvolite samo,
pobacajte lišće u reku,
kao deca svoje raspukle balone.

Jesen je najbudalastija tuga među tugama.

Jesen je moja ljubav
od pet zelenookih slova,
i laž,
najdetinjastija laž,
od koje sam do nesvesti rđav i dobar.

Vetre,
šta nas dvojica znamo,
možda u ovom trenutku u sve žute vagone
na nekim dalekim žutim prugama
ulaze devojčice iz naših žutih snova,
devojčice sa kosom žutom kao raž.

Zašto bi se,
inače
sve ovo zvalo tako žutim imenom: oktobar?

The Silliest Sorrow Of All Sorrows

Tonight, while the distant fog
is condensing and spreading,
while nobody is even trying
to understand these sparks in my pupils,
I assume I’m not imagining
that I’m the only one
this crazy and naive, and wonderful,
wonderful like a suburban antique shop window
where there are mines.

Wind,
help yourself,
toss the leaves into the river,
like kids do with their burst balloons.

Autumn is the silliest sorrow of all sorrows.

Autumn is my love
in six green-eyed letters,
and a lie,
the most childish lie,
that makes me bad and good up to unconsciousness.

Wind,
what do we know,
maybe, at this moment, into all the yellow wagons,
on some distant yellow railroads,
the girls from our yellow dreams are entering
girls with hair as yellow as rye.

Why else would,
otherwise,
all of this have such a yellow name: October?