М. С. Пешић: Мастило је горко / Ink is Bitter

Works are waiting unfinished

Winter, an unexpected guest, is drumming early on
the doors of our homes. Through the cracks of time
it is entering the books, it is turning the pages of my
manuscripts. The fruits of the calm, succulent

autumn are pushing on. An apple from Eden, pears
at the base of Eve's throat. Between the warm hand
of the one who is rolling the stones of voices and
the sweetest autumn gifts: the cold hoar-frost.

Instead of juices of the ripe fruits, the cold,
pouring rains. The sky is becoming closer, the stars
are flaking off. Over the sky map, silent is
a stargazer. Where the calendar

of love is. Where the heat is. Silent, we withdraw into
the shells of dream, into the sensitive membrane of
loneliness. The hands wish, beyond any touch, to
feel the beauty while works are waiting unfinished

Opening a manuscript

A blue, grain-like, restless manuscript, a picture
of life, a monastic tall cap, will once disclose the
secret and there will be illusion; now cloaked
in purple and native silver, in time, in gold,

in illuminations, it is untouchable. Over the decoration
of the manuscript, a monk scratches his beard. He
ruffles it,oblivious, remote. Drowsy. He shivers, longing
for the moment of mercy to pour over him. Then,

he prays, in his cell, in quiet, he will paint skirmishes,
gild the pages, redeem the sins of the houseless.
Of the miserable. Of the homeless, the tombless.
Stars wink through the universe and

guards on the city towers doze. Silence. An owl hoots,
a comet passes by. The monk bending over
the candle's flame dreams of the manuscript.
Ink grows bitter, the stiffened monastic bread

Since the founding of the town
/ab urbe cóndita/

Fern and moss.  Dream and shadow. The time of
seclusion. All is flickering. Vibrating. Shuddering.Ab
urbe cóndita. Leave the lipprint to be
the sign for everything, hold the crumbling seal and

your faith until the end. When deeds
elapse to mist, to nothingness
consisting of oblivion, the gentle outlines of
distant lips will shudder. The Lord will make

Himself heard. Those who feel and grasp that vibration,
who tell apart laughter and crying, they will redeem
their  pride. Everywhere the smile will be the host of
the one who enters the essence as if going to bed

The scent of musk soars

Love is cured with hunger, Crathes whispers
in his neighbour's ear. The old man pricks his ears
in wonder, not seeing, not hearing the visitor. Who
speaks,he asks in fear. Present yourself, he cries

to turn the fear away. Suffering is divine,
the fanatical Crathes roars. Anybody there,
asks the old man. Onto his vistor's hair
butterflies and bees descend, pollen and petals

fall. Dust. Light. The neighbour's concern is
who is in charge of the circle's line, who
defines the diameter. Angels cast off their wings.
Crathes ponders upon the Universe. Love

Is cured with hunger, he concludes; if it is ineffective,
rely on the time. The indecisive Crathes is not
familiar with love skills or consequences.
Daring beasts, birds, come in, the scent

Of musk soars. Goods given by the State,
Crathes equivocates, are worthless. Frightened,
the old man hurriedly looks for the rope around
the house. Crathes draws deep breaths of the musk

Speak the language of the tenderness

I speak the truth. I speak: a stone, salt, a bed,
a flower, light; I speak it is the hour of love,
the instant in which we will change
our skin, throw away the slough of memory and

of dreams, we will apeak the language of the tender.
Here the confused stargazers remain silent. From
their manuscripts the turquoise shine glows.
Beneath a bitter curtain of centuries the old men

roll dreams in their empty mouths. Vague
are the oracles; the new seers speak
cautiously, quietly, with refined words. Who
says that the truth lies in them, they are liars!

The last supper
/Cena Secreta/

Amanita verna. Galerina marginata. Boletus lupinus.
Amanita muscaria. Russula fragilis. Lepiota morgani.
Amanita vaginata. Russula emetica. Ramaria formosa.
Lepiota helveola. Amanita phalloides. Boletus satanas.

Cortinarius orellanus. Cortinarius traganus. Agaricus
xanthoderma. Amanita phalloides alba. Rhodophyllus
rhodopolius. Amanita muscaria aureola. Tricholoma
montanum. Amanita flavoconia. Amanita formosa.

Amanita virosa. Lactarius scrobiculatus. Tricholoma
pardinum. Amanita phalloides umbrina. Entoloma
sinuatum. Rhodophyllus sinuatus. Amanita ocreata.
Giromitra gigas. Coprinus insignis. Amanita aureola.

Inocybe maculata. Inocybe patouillardii. Ramaria
stricta. Boletus calopus. Amanita porphyria. Lepiota
cristata. Ramaria pallida. Rhodophyllus nidorosus.
Omphalotus olearius. Amanita pantherina. Mycena

pura. Amanita bisporigera. Entoloma hirtipes.
Inocybe corydalina. Amanita phalloides citrina.
Lepiota castanea. Agaricus meleagris. Amanita
brunnescens. Amanita rubescens. Mycena rosea.

Mephistopheles. Oracles

Through the glass from which lenses fell out
due to spells, with an effort I read vague oracles;
Jorge Luis Borges denies time, he denies
Hell. He shouts: life and death are missing

from life! In spite of everything, Maestro? I naively
ask. What am I to do?! To fix the glasses,
anyhow. Borges denies time: when am I to go to the
optician's? Borges denies

Hell: what shall I see through the other glasses?
The false presentation of the real! The Devil simpers,
covering his mouth with the hairy fist. He nudges me
into my loins like an accomplice, with his sharp elbow

It is a ripe part of the year

In short man's life there are things and events about
which silence is kept in a terrible, permanent, blind
way. A word will not be uttered even before the
mirror, through the clenched teeth, the dungeon of
                                               the tongue, in sleep,

through pores, through the smell of skin, do not
expect to hear what silence is kept about. Under
the earth from which there will not shoot up an
elder suitable for a flute, the knowledge of events and
                                              things that are kept silent about

will go, of things that fight back against themselves;
the things that are kept secret are oblivion, a finger
on the trigger, mouth of lead, a ripe part of the year.
Live a lone life. Silence is the salvation from tender
revealing speech

The voices of ancestors

The voices of ancestors, of genuine, remote ones who
lived before the foreseen prehistory,
are not irretrievably lost, gone.
Once uttered words, once written poems,

whistles, dramas, tragedies, disagreements,
whatever is in sound, is left to generations
engraved in ether with the mighty breath of resonance.
A sensitive ear, a preserved hammer and anvil,

a tender membrane, are the keys of understanding
time; they will set apart the sounds of chaos, restore them,
translate them into a modern language. We will learn
what used to happen. Like in everything, there will be

those everyday pages of history we easily
understand, and the stained, dark, unreadable lines.
About the former the indifferent ancestors took
care, about the latter the troubled times between us

The year is approaching its end

The year is approaching its end. Rejoice,you will
liveanew. January is showing through, beautiful
days are inthe ugly ones, and the easy is in the hard,
the outcomeis dubious; troubles and anxieties are

united. The bitter glass may bypass you, but have
doubts. Be ready for the worst moments
in order to stand them. And rejoice: even if you
have to suffer everything once more. Rejoice,

I tell you, for I can see: many will never again
experience joy or sorrow, happiness or
distress, they have shut the books, thrown away the
shoes, forgotten their own names, the pale features

Love, the leisure of the lazy

Oh, towns! Towns! How much light, how many
destinies. How much solitude! Darkness! Only love,
which Diogenes defined to be the leisure of the lazy,
nowhere. Wild beasts sharpen their fangs. Lairs are

full, the brood spreads like stench. Towns, the longing
of the ignorant, devour their own brood. In the nights
mounted with the balminess of the starry rustle, at
the urban fringe, there blooms the love different
                                           from the one

about which books shyly talk. Everything is different
at the fringe. Life furtively approaches from there. It
enters the city arteries, beating with uneven rhythm.
They who approach town devour their own dreams

In the shade of stone pine-trees

Heraclitus, in the shade of stone pine-trees, smiles with
superiority:the change is irresistible. Where the
time-keepers are,nobody said. The secret, while the
time is running out, keeps growingmore important.
                Someone, from ambush, counts on uncertain

time, on the scum which covers everything, patiently,
slowly, treacherously, inexorably, thoroughly. Time,
an embroiderer of oblivion, creator of dust. Only
the blue is clear. Everything else melts away in the
                               mist of time, in the flank

of change, in the abating and fading echo. Do stars
change their places when pointed at by the sextant,
by the fingerof destiny, by a pitted mirror, by a
telescope, by an eye of the learned,wonders the one
                      who keeps ruffling water with words.

But twice the same water, Heraclitus yells out. Oh,
he smiles mysteriously, proudly, elatedly, convinced
thatthe truth is in the throat, under his coat-tail.
Under the cap. In the bosom. He believes that water
                  devours words, shadows, essence, breath

The language wash

Do not oppose your senses,
preserve spontaneity. Step out
of the membrane, givethe learned things
back to the sources, to the vague

shadows of birds. Forget
the learning, forget centuries,
history, traditions. Forget
everything. Do not mourn. Throw away

the mask; conquer the hope, fear,
courage. Wash your language,
free the word. Sing. Sing,
prove that you are here, that you are

I count only happy moments
/horas non numero nisi serenas/

The question on my lips is a cold bladeof a knife.
Tomorrow's day is growing red, the moment for
whose understanding there is no certain way. The
scent of roses withdraws among the petals

and bee downs. An unknown light
is dying out beyond understanding, before
it reaches the peak and before it starts
rippling. It stirs memories, desire, passion,

unrest, appeal from the shadow. An invisible
hand shifts the needle of the sundial:
I count only happy moments! Moods
are changing. Questions are gushing up

The scraping of the bowl

When everything is said, the past thoroughly
examined, the future foreseen,
silence remains. Remember: there is no
other moment except today's. Live it.

Turn your clothes inside out, scrape the bowl;
wipe out the juice of impatience from your lips:
long, hard journeys are perhaps in front of you.
Don't mention the days gone by. 

Scattered are the calendar leaves

Summer is disappearing, love is gone. Photos grown
yellow.Bodies cool. Mind, too. Only kernels still roll
in the mouth, with a bitter taste of the expired passion.
Breath cannot be held up or restored: a proof that
                                                         summer passes.

Scattered are the calendar leaves. Who collects time,
who will restore the motion of the elapsed? Look, a
smilewe do not hope for. Illusion always subsists,
anew. An instant! Learnoblivion. Stand the change
                                    of a leaf.  Summer must pass

Mighty is the hand

Mighty is the hand that gives the blessing, that carries
weapons, builds and destroys, caresses, hugs,
strikes, raises and lowers, mighty is the hand
in the nights when the unrestrained shape

of your ripe breast sleeps in it. Mighty is the hand
on which the print of your beautiful lips shines
golden and the poisonous bite of your love.Your waist
also reclines on it. And your neck lies on it. You.

Mighty is the hand when your thigh butters up gently
while you slowly open yourself. Mighty is this hand,
I tell you, when you surrender to it completely,
beyond his world, intoxicating

Recollection. Illusion. Voice

We both know well: you have never
been here, but the music that is heard
reveals your presence, the discrete,
unique voice, recognizable one,

the voice that quivers, excites and stretches
the nostrils, is yours. That voice changes
the heartbeat: I know that you are here!
I whisper, she is here. Hold out your hand to her,

touch her: she will stay! I know that your
lovely, smooth, gentle hand is a guide
to my pen. The air I breathe in
is filled with you. The light shining

in the corners of the room is yours. I feel: you
are here, although it is obvious you are not.
I feel strange. I breathe silently,
with restraint, not to disturb you.

I watch over the charm. You are ripe, sweet
Like fruit. I take you. Wildly. I devour you.
I bite, I pulsate. I hearken:
you circle invisible, ouside reach

The who reel up thin hanks

Letters are scattered like pellets. How to gather them,
howto restore the past? Anxiety is in everything;
in heartbeats, ina line, in a breath, in a pen. Rain is
changing colours, a messengerhis scarlet uniform.
                   The Zodiac is darkening, memories fading.

On the roll rests the certain sign of trouble, the
crushedseal wax. Gardens are emptied in haste, the
forgotten goblets darken. Lovers caress each other
with sorrow,aware of transience. They repress lies.
                                                               Blessed is  

the touch of Communion. A smile, a light print, a
shadowof the elapsed. Whom to believe with the
letters scattered, the skin gathering events, the rainbow
getting changed, the messenger washing his bleeding
tongue. All sorts of rumours are going around; they

who reel up thin hanks have no time for love. They
who love passionately never learn the truth, covered
with the stars where high hours are counted. Gloomy
messengers are gatheringvoices, scattered destinies,
                                       hard words, wailing, dreams

Snow will bury everything

You have filled the measure, the door is locked.
The mandrake is under the tongue. Do not allow
to be seduced by the mild stroking of spring,
which is reminiscent of the first love, when dedication

is full of candour, or by the warm breath of summer,
by life's age of maturity, when you give and take,
when happiness reaches the peak; do not misjudge. There
will come the warning autumn, the winds, and then

winter will freeze your blood, the merciless punishment
will flog your face. Do not forget that snows
will bury everything. When that time comes, do not say:
I have given! Let them who take remember and glorify

Pythagoras' theorem

When the pointer of the scales shows noon, it is over
with the delay. Not even doom has so strict a hand
and exact measure. Turn round, collect yourself
and think. The past is beyond repair,

we don't know what will come, for this very moment
is quite uncertain. The moment belongs both to the
former and to the future one. Only the scales' pointer
is upright: showing the time of every account.

To hit the road unprepared?! On the other side
maturity is measured in Pythagoras' sense. He,
our teacher, said: the scales' pointer should
not skip. The measure is fulfilled, it's time!

Time. Track

Words proliferate like avalanche, voices are spread
by low tide like golden dust. Times change,
everything takes another hue. Nothing is so
permanent as the change  which is to be conquered
                                         with silence; the silence, as

regulated by Solon, the law-giver, with time. That
is the measure. Seventy years, which is worthy
of a man, as long as the mind cocoons, language
preserves softness, and glorifies creation. That is
                                       the way to the light, breath.

To darkness everything approaches furtively. He who
learns to obey, will know to order, if the time comes
for that. Everything is in words, in the flexibility of l
anguage. Then comes what must come. Goodness
will change the pattern of the stars. With silence.

Achievements are mirrored in words; silence is a
form of speech while time stamps language. With the
years memories grow thinner, words fade out, locks
come loose. What happens with language? The
                cutting edge is in the veil of mist, in sheath   

Moment, time, and you

Time blooms like a wound. Juices of a dream flow
away. Unfamiliar is the daywhen everything grows
into the purple; the finger of Fate warns. Will that
hand be inclined to us? The One

guiding it, holding it out, what does He aim at?
He who kills with one stroke, not bearing pain in
mind, not caring about consequences. Everything
has been written down with darkness and light,

with native silver and jade. Moment, time, and you.
The proof of helplessness is in resisting when
shadows grow shorter, and the breath is lost in wide
open spaces. He who writes down does not forgive:
                                            he keeps silent, remembers


It is winter, understand

Indeed: it will soon start snowing.
Nothing new, I hear you saying.
You do not remember: snowflakes are omens
of winter. Our bodies will become remote,

lonely, trembling. We will not know that
we are, winter will be between us. In vain you hold
out your hands; winter will bury Everything. You
will be trembling. Do not be afraid, it is only

the end. The years will be summed up by someone
unknown, the snow will fill up, unknown winds
will be blowing; it will really be cold!
You call to your dear figure. It has come, understand

Once Familiar Places

Familiar places, once dear, for which we kept longing
for years, wishing the hour of the fresh meeting,
idealizing the landscape, the warmth of a breeze,
the shadow of the loved woman, the phases of the
                                moon, the grass colour, the flash

of lightning, recalling to memory the wet kiss
of departure, the firmness and shape of a breast,
the smooth skinof thighs, velvet: where are they?
Irrelevant are the memories of a stranger. Nothing
                                                  is familiar or dear

as before. Familiar places, remote, sobering wake
us up from a heavy sleep. The breath of the
transient has touched all, the hand of time keeps
changing all, as if to avenge. Illusion is mighty.
                 What remains is bitterness, dust, nausea

The whispeer of the little brothers

Is an aura over the head, a rainbow
over the town, love's pleasure, salt
on a fellow speaker's lip, an omen?
Darkness and light dissolve into 

sunset and tremour. The signs of the Zodiac
are all jumbled; unfavourable is
the horoscope. Remote is the fear from Thales.
To conceive one's own person is

impossible, Thales sends a message. He addresses
the newarrangement of the stars, he offers a sacrifice
holding it high, aware of the changes.
He learns suffering from the cosmic chaos.

Closely does he watch the galactic changes, the
changes of years, cosmic rules, the totality
of events, changing the moment of fate. What must
be will be, the whisper of the Little Brothers flows

On edge we are waiting for the night to fall

On edge, we are waiting for the night to fall,
that cosy cradle of love. When it
touches us with its light bedspread,
the shaky night will shower upon us the language

of supralove words we are not aware of,
let alone of their staggering might.
These words, the very fire of love, open
the secret door, they condense our omnipotent

bodies and our blood. Did I say that the night
burns. That cradle of ours where we easily
rock the love and where shiny stars
fall, grows deeper and deeper

Words of advice of the young orpheous

The new is to be said, the juice to be squeezed
out of the words, the essence, the sound, sharpness,
meaning to be identified, the background of Orpheus'
flute to be interpreted. Eurydice contemplates

a new love, undying one, shining like
a ray of the sun. The delicate cornice of the glass
breaks and the wine spills the purple on
the table-cloth: it makes the map of love,

the crumbling geographical map. Each glance
easily disrupts whatever love is called
for it is vulnerable, very much so. The purple
spreads the harsh scent which makes

all senses vibrate. The proof of existence
unfolds like hanks; every minute
a thread may break, ties may
tangle. Does she ever tremble,

she who unfolds hanks, the tones of life,
by the sound made by a tight string,
by the beauty scattering about like petals
of roses we will identify the forthcoming end. At

the turn of the seasons of the year, do not look
back, the young Orpheus suggests. He did not learn
that amazing Eurydice, beneath the limpid
veil, loved the other one. The flute mourns

The sound of the bronze sandals

There happened the things we know not, worthy of
a poet, like the wise Empedocles says: once
I was a little boy, girl, bush, bird, and fish
from the jumping sea. Is it the praised tenet

on the migration of souls? Yet, his mysterious death
remained a secret to all who argued that they were
friends. How, then, to read manuscripts
in verse left behind the far-seeing

teacher of the four elements? Zeus is fire, Hera s earth,
Aidoneus air, Nestis water, and that is clear, but the
famous Empedocles, where is he? And the wine
shining golden while pouring down his curls, and his

migrating soul, fluttering, emphemeral, splendid,
crystalline, angelic? It seems that, like always, the
guess lies within the verses, and those among
us, gathered here, who know to read the words
                                   turned upside down like a chalice

let them speak without fear for their heads, the least
possible stake, and light the lamp to illuminate the
way to Etna nto which, as the story goes, the good
Empedocles jumped. He who is suddenly enlightened,
                                                    does not dare to

turn back, for he hears the sound of the bronze
sandals. If here is a reason for silence, the cause
is burst open in it ike the pomegranate in which
Empedocles' soul feasts, which alks with us
                                              mortals like with the equals

A quote from the talmud

Teach your tongue to speak: I don't know, teach eyes
not to look, ears not to listen, you will dine with
pleasure, in the field, your quiet home, and at daybreak
you will be carefree, with a whistle that confuses

birds. Minutes pass. You heard nothing.
You do not know. Days, months, years pass.
Everything passes. You saw nothing, remember.
Nobody visits you, nobody addresses you

for anything. Your tongue is mirrored in a chasm,
mute, forgotten. Teach, I tell you, your tongue to
speak: I don't know. It will bring you peace and
present you with infinite joys. You don't know.
                                      You'd better

think things over! I don't know. How many are they?
I don't know! You show spite, don't you? I don't know.
Who are they? What did they want? I don't know.
You will know, you will! Who pays you? Tell it!
                    I don't know. When did they come?

I don't know. Be cooperative, it will be better, upon
my word! I don't know. Listen, I am losing patience.
I don't Know. Do you know who we are! I don't know.
Well, now we will teach you a lesson, and you will
                                                         know and remember!

Isaac, fallen asleep against the apple tree

The apple-tree blossoms fast, as hastily as the very fall.
Sleepy Isaac beneath it. In the grass a pencil,
the cap of sleep. Crickets, a bitter spurge,
an unstable field eryngo, a marigold.

Plants ripen. A basil blooms. An ordinary day.
Accident lurks as erect as a phallus, an apple ripens
quietly; Nature ponders. Everything falls
silent. Oh Lord, it's time! The stem breaks

the seal of a secret: now God, preoccupied with
everyday concerns, with the correction of the visible
and invisible, with Eve's desire, with the serpent,
with Adam's disobedience, with catering,

with house-paintng works, is also entrapped. Fire
devours The Diary of Work, where all secrets
of Genesis were cautiously encoded. To what purpose
the labour, code-book, locks, when

the wretch, drilling an apple, uncovered the essence
of Earth's gravity, my dearest secret. There's no
progress, might, or power. The Creator is not
respected even by worms, the angry Lord complains.

What am I to do? Am I to give up after Everything
I did creating the World?! The Lord ponders while Isaac,
blessedly fallen asleep, snores under
the apple-tree. He stoically bears up ants' stings

Jade attracts the one whose name is love

He who did not measure his love, he loved in secret,
in the days of loneliness, in the nights empty and
desperate. He planned in vain. To appeal to her who
does not stand schemes and calculations is in vain.
                                                        The scent

of stone pine-trees and jade attract the one whose name
is sometimes love. She walks under the stars wrapped
in the light veil of dusk. Why does she hide while
coming? She whispers. She approaches furtively.
                                                      He who shows

his love in a bragging manner is soon left alone in
chambers with wine and with the scent of stone
pine-trees. The breath of night replaces the motions
of her who intoxicates and hides even when departing.
She sneaks out. She is sensitive, very much so.

Unpredictable. How to call back her who changes her
name like a virgin in love changes necklaces, and
responds at her own will? How to know the measure
of love, how to learn the charms of her who herself
                                              does not know them

Mephistopheles, with the heavy old wine

Letters break the light where stark naked swims Jesus,
a carpenter's son, a cunning, hypocritical, handsome,
seductive speaker. Quick. Young. Fragile, sensitive
likea lens out of the range of the craftsman's hand.

The prints of the bare feet in dust are the measure of
clemency,of warmth. On Spinoza'a dropped eyebrows
clustersof the glassy dust glitter. Silicosis shakes off the
theses of the Treatise on Faith. The mob rejoices.
                                                       Roars. Asks

for the death of the heretic. Anathema is a relish;
the salvationis in death, the tired Spinoza hums. What
to dowhen the rabble is blind, he wonders bent over
the writings; to change the names of things, the
                            tokens of men, and to suppress

the essence? He grinds down his lenses with dedication,
testing the gameof light and shadow. The honed lens
suddenly squeals; a proof that the evil survives. In
the evening the happy Mephistopheles arrives, the
                     young master of the mistake, the wise

fellow speaker, the hedonist with whom it is a pleasure
to drink archival wines with the big game. Prudent,
he easily argues about the Gnostics, pro et contra God,
about his own schism, about morality and dogma


Almost imperceptibly, everything will disappear
and take the the inevitable patina's peal,
and the smile, once sweet, will congeal
on seeing the one who once was so dear!

Translated from the Serbian by Lazar Macura

Our Father

Our Father, You’re so high
In the sky,
that neither can reach prayer, nor the eye,
if Your dust above us fly

 Holly let it be thy name
noble and singledry
that recover and remedy flame
of soulless and evil time

Save us, our Father, from the mud
from defamers and from bad
always and forever.

Make us worthy, our Father
of our years, and merciful be Thou,
like ever, like only You know!

 Preveo sa srpskog Ljubomir Zlatanoviic

Des heures s’ensuivent insensiblement

Dans le jardin botanique le dérnier chant des oiseaux
rassasié par les bonnes odeurs.
Les feuilles tombent indécisèment. Il y a
du sens que le calmechange la hâte

tandis que les jours voguent avec  hâte
en plougeant en aucun lieu
Les heures s’ensuivent à l’année insensiblement

courte comme un clin d’oeil.
Le calendrier agite àl’air les couleurs:
l’automne mûrit.

Quelqu’un élargit ses yeux, rêveur:
en ne voyant pas que l’ombre est tout ce qui a été
et ce y qui viendra –c’est passé!

Notre Père

 Notre Père, Tu qui es si hautement
sur les Cieux,
qu’on n’atteint ni la prière ni en environ.
S’il t’y a aussi à la poussière

Ton nom qu’il soit saint
noble et unique
qu’il corrobore et guérit des plaies
au temps mauvais et sans âme.

 Sauve-nous, notre Dieu, de la boue,
des malfaisante et du mal.
aujourd’hui et toujours.

 Fais que notre siècle soit digne de Toi
et caresse-nous un peu, notre Père,
comme autorefois, comme Tu le sais.

 Prevela sa srpskog Nevenka D. Popovic





Шака мрака

Мастило је горко / ink is bitter

Књига промена

У дом за старе стигао је комунизам

Писма осамљеника

Глумци одлазе, сире

Бенгалска ватра глуме

Смрт је ловац самотан

Мачје, мишје и друге

Мирна кућа

Мефистов вез

С љубечитим штовањем

Вечерња благост

Тамни вилајет


Кад те заболи душа

Мали знаци неверства

Човек против себе

Хелена спава с мишицом под главом

Књига постања