Tin Ujevic (1891-1955). Croatia

green branch with a sadness of yellow fruit

In some old Split park
I daydream softly, my soul asleep:
green branch with a sadness of yellow fruit.
The damp dream sticks to my soul;
and longing shivers like a small, coatless bird,
like a snapped blue song,
like a wan, hopeless clogdance,
like a shoeless tramp on a stranded road.
My heart is seven scraps,
all fiery-skewered:
marble sways over my breath.
Blurry thoughts flinch in the lightquiver;
my blooded brain starts in its box:
above my dark your clement eyes
...