Runners

At the beginning of a run the thoughts are claylike, wooden. Then

Dried under fast breath, they dissipate

Into something, for instance a major fugato that runs behind

And alongside us before finally disappearing.

Runners then crawl in all directions across the forest’s belly just like ants, they slide

Down her legs, jumping over the indents amongst fingers.

In dream, the forest is slowly repositioning through centuries, because

It is being tickled by its wooden core amidst the ancient night.

A wintry morning is its favourite book that she opens with the first snow,

Turning the first white page.

Instead of the title there are people there in small print,

Those early birds.

And in the summer, when trees sing from their roots, giving an idea to the birds by means of leaves, 

And insects who had hitherto lived in the huts of alphabet, the forest retreats

As a monk deep beneath the bark of the trees.

The runners than cannot find it in their thoughts and thus blinded

By their heavy breathing they are dash through the desert,

The dried out river bed, the deserted province.

They do not know that the forest had already been lingering inside of them for some time

In their feet

And palms, hoisting up its flag along their necks.

Titmouse moved into its lungs and the leaves of black alder

Are rustling in its ankles.

The runners are already flying like ducks, flapping their wings

With all their might

Only to finally fly out of the forest like a mute explosion:

Out of the book that wrote them they jump out unscathed. 

© translated by Damir Šodan

Trkači

U početku trčanja misli su glinene, mokre. Zatim, osušene brzim dahom, raspu se

u nešto, npr. durski fugato koji trčkara iza, pored, i nestane.

Trkači se kao mravi razmile po trbuhu šume, klize joj niz noge i preskaču udubine između prstiju.

Šuma se u snu premješta, polagano, kroz stoljeća, jer ju usred drevne noći golica drvena jezgra.

Zimsko jutro njezina je najdraža knjiga koju otvara s prvim snijegom, na prvoj bijeloj stranici.

Umjesto naslova, na njoj sitno otisnuti ljudi, ranoranioci.

A ljeti, kad drveće iz korijenja pjeva i lišćem prenosi ideju pticama i kukcima koji su dotad živjeli u kolibama alfabeta, šuma se povuče u monaštvo, duboko pod koru.

Trkači je ne mogu pronaći u mislima i tako oslijepjeli od daha

jure kroz pustinju, suho korito, napuštenu pokrajinu.

Ne znaju da je šuma već bila u njima i neko vrijeme se zadržala u njihovim stopalima

i dlanovima, a u vratu je podigla svoju zastavu.

U pluća su se uselile sjenice, a u zglobovima šušti lišće crne johe.

Trkači lete već kao patke, mlataraju krilima do kraja snaga

i zatim izlete iz šume kao nečujna eksplozija,

iz knjige koja ih je napisala iskaču neokrznuti.

© Ana Brnardić