Ivica Smolec
U ove mrtve sate, dok pravednici sniju raj,
komet se diže iz vode ne ogrebavši joj sjaj.
Šuma je crna od lišća, topla od perja, dlake,
prigušen čuje se jauk iz more neke svrake.
Iznad stabala i vode mjesec se smiješi, šuti,
kistom njegovim bojani srebre se šumski puti.
Na prsa žilava bukvu stisnuo grbavi grab,
lišćem njegovim šapće joj povjetarac tih i slab.
Noć ova, utješna, nježna, usnulu šumu mazi,
slijepila mrakom krošnje, vratom mi toplo plazi.
Frizuru u glatkoj vodi provjerava drevni dub,
žir zreli ispušta meko dok naginje se nad rub.
Na hrast taj naslonjen sjedim, svog raja zanesen snom,
dok divna šuma me grli, na daleki mislim dom.
28. srpanj 2008.
Notturno
n these dead hours when fair people eden dream,
a comet is rising from water not rending its peaceful gleam.
The forest is black of leaves, warm ’cause of feather and fur,
restrained moan is heard, the nightmare of magpie on fir.
Upwards the trees and water, moon smiles, quite still,
because of his generously brush, all paths with silver fill.
On his tenacious bosom, humpy hornbeam hugs a beech,
with help of tinny breeze, she listens his leaves’ mild speech.
This night, comfortable, soft, is petting the sleepy wood,
it glued foliage by darkness, its touch on neck’s so good.
On doughy water, its coiffure’s checking the ancient oak,
slopping above the edge, dropped mellow acorn to soak.
I’m sitting leaned on the oak, with my eden dream’s syndrome,
wonderful forest’s embracing me, I’m yearning for my faraway home.
July the 28th, 2008