A Portray of the Black Poet with a Dog
His face is brown, well healed scar
and his body wraps around far away cities
like a yearning ivy
blue and enchanted women wish to touch its root
with a poisonous nail,
to cut it or turn it to dust.
He runs, he doesn't sleep,
he writes about love, and rain, and revolutions
like a timetable clock on the railway station
In a harbor tavern somewhere in the South of France
I noticed by chance bull's blood
dripping from his tongue on the pavement.
And I called him Hemingway,
but I could named him
The Snows of Kilimanjaro.
His substance isn't from our time
and when he sits in a cafe in Mostar
covered with a floury waiting,
his fingers lengthen and turn into dukes' keys
and his back grows into a field of tulips
made in anarchistic monasteries
drips from his back
on beloved dog and tepid beds.
Translated by Miloš Đuđević and Damir Šodan