Najcrnji sat

Gravitacijska polja, poljane i stotine ari trave.  
Zdrobljena nasmrt, pod hrpom štitova razbijena,
k'o puž bez oružja, naga, grob mi Tarpejska stijena;  
napokon izbjegla sebe, okrenula teški ključ brave.

U najcrnji sat, minutu prije no zora zarudi
k'o Vrabac kojemu krv se s trna slijeva na grudi,
biram preporođenje. Puls me čas prati, čas gubi,  
dok slabi motor u veni, još štuca i tiho mi trubi.

Živim se pijeskom hranim i oslonac ne trebam zato
što zemljom se tovim i letim na njenome plinu dok blato  
njušim. K'o meta u zraku, k'o nekakav golub od gline,

puštam da okriljen oblik mojega daha se vine
s tvojega kvarnoga nepca na kojem tek prijevara leži.
Svoje tijelo ukradi, a onda ga seciraj, reži!

© Sibila Petlevski
Aus: Koreografija patnje
Zagreb
Audioproduktion: David Gazarov, 2008

In the Darkest Hour

Meadows, acres of meadows and gravitational fields.

Crushed to death with hundreds of my own shields,

Unarmed, stark naked like a slug, buried on a rock,

I escaped myself eventually, turned the key in the lock.


In the darkest hour, just before the dawn, like that Robin

Redbreast who picked the blood dyed thorn, I have to choose

a way to be reborn. My pulse is playing fast and loose

with me; the quiet engine in my veins still throbbing.


I eat live send, no longer search for footing.  

Much like a pigeon – a piece of clay for shooting,    

I gorge on earth, sniff mud; I fly on fumes    


and let the winged form my breath assumes

take off your jaded palate that tells but deadly lies.

Snatch your own body, then anatomize!

Written in English