Mostar rains

i loved a certain svetlana in mostar one autumn
if only i knew whome she was sleeping with now
i'd chop her i'd chop her
if only i knew who was kissing her now
i'd knock his i'd knock his
ah if i knew who picking apricots
still unripe in me

i was telling her you are a child you are green
i was telling her everything
and she wept on my hands at may words
i was telling her you are an angel you are a devil
your body is ripe don't pretend to be a saint
and all night blue rains were raining over mostar

there was no sun no birds there was nothing
she asked me whether i had a brother what i studied
whether i was a croat whether i love rilke she asked everything
she asked me if i could do the same with every girl god forbid
she asked me in a low voice if i loved her
and blue rains were falling over mostar
she was luxuriously white in the dark od the room
but she wouldn't give she wouldn't
or she didn't dare devil knows

it is autumn that dead autumn in window-panes
her eyes a bird her thighs a doe
she had a mole a mole she had i dare not say
she had a mole small and violet or so it seems to me
she asked me if i was a croat if i had a girl
if i loved rilke she asked me everything
while in the window like christmas bells of my childhood water
drops rang
and a night song softly along downtown
hey suleman mother's son

she spread her years upon the floor
her eyes were full ripe peaches
her breasts were warm as puppies
i told her she was stupid she was putting on airs
svetlana svetlana do you know this is the atomic age
de gaulle gagarin and such nonsense i told her everything
she wept she wept

i took her to the bazaar dives
i toke her everywhere
i hid her in caves carried her to a balcony
under bridges we played hide and seek the neretva a filly
under an old bridge i spoke of crnjanski
how marvelous he is how marvelous

i drew her knees in wet sand
she laughed so merrily so innocently like first lilies
i took her to mosques karadjoz bey dead too dead
under his heavy tomb
so shantich's grave she carried some flowers cried a little
like a women
i took her everywhere

it is this summer now
i am now quite different i write some poems
in a newspaper half a column gor pero zubac and nothing more
and all the night blue rains were falling over mostar
she was luxuriously white in the dark od the room
but she wouldn't give she wouldn't
od she didn't dare devil knows

that sky those clouds those roofs
the pale sun of the hungry boy over mostar
i can't forget
nor her hair her small tongue like a strawberry
her laughter which could hurt like a curse
that player in the chapel on the white fill
god is great she said he will outlive us
nor those heavy blue rains
oh autumn her barren autumn

she spoke of films of james dean
she spoke about everything a bit sadly a bit pathetically
or karenina
she said clyde griffiths could not
hurt a fly
i laughed you are stupid he is a murdeerer you are a child of
but those streets those news-boys selling the latest edition of
those half withered grapes in shop-windows i can't forget
that bitter barren autumn over mostar those rains
ske kissed me all night long and caressed me and nothing more
i swear by my mother we did nothing more

after that summers came again rains came again
only one short letter from ljubljana why there
those leaves on pavements those days
i can't i don't know how
to erase

she writes she asked me what i do how i live if i have a girl
whether i ever think of her and of that autumn of those rains
she is now the same she swears by god quite the same
shall i believe her shall i laugh i cursed christ a long time ago
and i don't quite love her whether she swore or not
it must be so lies are worthlees

i talked to her of lermontov chagall i told her everything
she carried with her on old zweig's book read in the afternoon
her hair was threaded with summer the yellow colour of the
sun a little of the sea
first night her skin was also somewhat salty fish asleep
in her blood
we laughed at the boys who were jumping from bridges for
we laughed because it was not summer and thay were jumping
they are real children
she said they could die they could get pneumonia

then her long too long silences came
i could freely think about anything explain spinoza
for hours i could look at others at leisure throw stones
down rock i could also go somewhere go far away
i colud have died alone on her breasts more lonely than anyone
i could have turned into a bird water a rock
i could have done all this

her fingers were long weak bloodless but quick
we played lady-bird and hide and seek
svetlana get out you are under the rock i am not blinde
i am not stupid come up don't hesitate you'll be beaten
when it was her turn i could flee into the river itself she would
find me
she smells me immediately she says she knows me well
i never belived her she may have peeped through her fingers
she liked chestnuts we picked them round about
she carried them to the room hung them on threads
she loved roses those autumn roses i brought her
when they withered she would put them into a tin

i asked her what she thought oh this world whether she belived
in communism
whether she would like to be natasha rostova i asked her
sometimes stupid questions i know that only too well
i asked her whether she'd like a small son blond say
she jumped from enthusiasm yes yes
and all of a sudden she was overpowere by grief like dead fruits
she mustn't she mustn't she wouldn't do that for her life
do you hear him he thinks it's so easy as if i had fallen from
who then is that zubac pera that he should be that mn and
not somebody else
by no means he thinks he is at least brando or such a one

i told her you are stupid you are clever you are a devil
you are an angel i told her everything she believed nothing
you men are born liars you are rascals
she said everything
and blue rains were falling over mostar

i really loved that svetlana one autumn
if only i knew who she was sleeping with now i'd chop his
i'd chop his if only i knew who was kissing her now
i'd knock his i'd knock his alas if only i knew who
was picking apricots still unripe in me

~ THE END ~ // 1965

Pero Zubac