peace flow to your lips
may I
no longer be on them
or I will, from that amorphous soil,
with every breath of my dying
flesh, grow white
into you, be extinguished
until this white paper
is bedewed with words, until I come here
with the tip of the kiss
whipped, let peace grow
thorns on your lip, die and, flow, peace
let the door made of soil slam shut,
oil, may you die and, be so that I can be
where there is, first pierced, then sewed up
by your lips endlessly, peace
the white flesh of my voice, you sleep,
do not pull to pieces the darkness on my lips
by Anka Zagar (b. 1954)
Translated by Sibila Petlevski
