By: Vedran Husić
Walk out of your house, walk out of your city,
silent as the path ahead; do not curse fate
or look back at the squat blue shadows of sheep
over the pasture’s fire-green symmetry:
memory will not bear an immaculate
return or retrieve what the eye cannot keep.
The thread of your joy has broken from its loom.
No second season awaits, but you forget.
Far from home, your existence becomes life’s mime:
words calling after you from the dark assume
no signifying light, and no strong regret
occasions the salvage of the wrecks of time.