To Filip Visnjic
Oh, my forehead, a map made out of dreams and wind,
of strange discoveries, you sight under the skin,
in the imagined shadow you flower and lamp
instead of the word which cannot be repeated.
Oh, my forehead, a map made out of dreams and wind!
I uncover myself dead to the sun after me,
because calamity lasts even after death.
The blind clearly see the fate before which go insane
horizons of the sky made out of betrayal.
I uncover myself dead to the sun after me.
That's all that's left out of my voice,
that echo in which detained are all days.
Is a monument a grave? Standing out thanks to the stars of its physique,
the horizon which I'll inhabit forever.
And that's all that's left out of my voice.
In a quiet flower some fires burn
Lost in the world, illusions dream of my eye.
Oh, you sad nights which fell over my dream!
Let the sky dream of ingle and storm!
In a quiet flower some fires burn.
Oh, my forehead, a map made out of dreams and wind,
of strange discoveries, you sight under the skin,
in the imagined shadow you flower and lamp
instead of the word which cannot be repeated.
Oh, my forehead, a map made out of dreams and wind!
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