From the section TRANSLATIONS

I was packing the suitcases while the music was the loudest.

Somehow i love, i still love to leave.

To leave when they don’t notice it.

To leave behind one more summer.

And late August is leaving me. One more August.

Those ever more rare lights at the other shore—

those are someone else’s distant lives.

 

Those lights over there, that others can barely perceive,

i feel them by my fate –

those lights in the nearby hills,

which create the perfect shadows,

— it is us, it is I, these are the salts of our lives.

 

At the sea, only at the sea

Our mutual disapperances are mirrored.

At the sea, and sometimes in the wind.

 

One more summer is leaving me.

And I am thinking that it is I leaving for somewhere.

Boats are quiet. And it is midnight.

Midnight in Lastva, Donja.

One more August is leaving me.

One more eight month. Once again at the invisible road.

It is the same, i comfort myself, for the poets from Southern Italy,

It’s everywhere like that where stars and boats are calm.

At this time of the year.

Now, when we are ever coser to the life’s autumn.

It is like that there too, at this very tim of the the year.

AT this time of the night.

At this time of the world.

August’s sadness seduces me regularly

It is so, i am thinking, in Valonia and more to the south.

At the cities which we do not know

and which names mean nothing to us.

 

Don’t southern stars fall there?

AT those times when te suitcases are packed

And when the boats are calm.

Like a storm that waves ships’ diaries

Of Giorgos Seferis and all the great poets of Alexandria.

 

Papers and cities which i reach only in this way.

In Donja Lastva there is balance of waters and letters.

Of traditions and times.

Harmony of consonants.

One more summer is leaving me…

And it is as if i am seeing it all for the first time.

Because those lights that are making the vawes at the sea

maybe in reality those are not my departures.

My August and my eight month.

That’s the world disappearing, that’s I dissapearing:

It is neither death, nor it is life.

And i am awaiting that at least one of the two arrives.

Somehow, i still love departures.

One more summer is leaving m

and at the sea i am observing our mutual disappearences,

in the sea and to the south,

at the far placed mirror,

in tommorrow’s wind.

And once again in the sea,

at the sea full of stars.

The boats are calm. And it is midnight.

Midnight at Lastva, Donja.

(1) Donja Lastva is a coastal neighbourhood in the town of Tivat, Montenegro, L. R. S.

I was packing the suitcases while the music was the loudest.

Somehow i love, i still love to leave.

To leave when they don’t notice it.

To leave behind one more summer.

And late August is leaving me. One more August.

Those ever more rare lights at the other shore—

those are someone else’s distant lives.

 

Those lights over there, that others can barely perceive,

i feel them by my fate –

those lights in the nearby hills,

which create the perfect shadows,

— it is us, it is I, these are the salts of our lives.

 

At the sea, only at the sea

Our mutual disapperances are mirrored.

At the sea, and sometimes in the wind.

 

One more summer is leaving me.

And I am thinking that it is I leaving for somewhere.

Boats are quiet. And it is midnight.

Midnight in Lastva, Donja.

One more August is leaving me.

One more eight month. Once again at the invisible road.

It is the same, i comfort myself, for the poets from Southern Italy,

It’s everywhere like that where stars and boats are calm.

At this time of the year.

Now, when we are ever coser to the life’s autumn.

It is like that there too, at this very tim of the the year.

AT this time of the night.

At this time of the world.

August’s sadness seduces me regularly

It is so, i am thinking, in Valonia and more to the south.

At the cities which we do not know

and which names mean nothing to us.

 

Don’t southern stars fall there?

AT those times when te suitcases are packed

And when the boats are calm.

Like a storm that waves ships’ diaries

Of Giorgos Seferis and all the great poets of Alexandria.

 

Papers and cities which i reach only in this way.

In Donja Lastva there is balance of waters and letters.

Of traditions and times.

Harmony of consonants.

One more summer is leaving me…

And it is as if i am seeing it all for the first time.

Because those lights that are making the vawes at the sea

maybe in reality those are not my departures.

My August and my eight month.

That’s the world disappearing, that’s I dissapearing:

It is neither death, nor it is life.

And i am awaiting that at least one of the two arrives.

Somehow, i still love departures.

One more summer is leaving m

and at the sea i am observing our mutual disappearences,

in the sea and to the south,

at the far placed mirror,

in tommorrow’s wind.

And once again in the sea,

at the sea full of stars.

The boats are calm. And it is midnight.

Midnight at Lastva, Donja.

(1) Donja Lastva is a coastal neighbourhood in the town of Tivat, Montenegro, L. R. S.

I was packing the suitcases while the music was the loudest.

Somehow i love, i still love to leave.

To leave when they don’t notice it.

To leave behind one more summer.

And late August is leaving me. One more August.

Those ever more rare lights at the other shore—

those are someone else’s distant lives.

 

Those lights over there, that others can barely perceive,

i feel them by my fate –

those lights in the nearby hills,

which create the perfect shadows,

— it is us, it is I, these are the salts of our lives.

 

At the sea, only at the sea

Our mutual disapperances are mirrored.

At the sea, and sometimes in the wind.

 

One more summer is leaving me.

And I am thinking that it is I leaving for somewhere.

Boats are quiet. And it is midnight.

Midnight in Lastva, Donja.

One more August is leaving me.

One more eight month. Once again at the invisible road.

It is the same, i comfort myself, for the poets from Southern Italy,

It’s everywhere like that where stars and boats are calm.

At this time of the year.

Now, when we are ever coser to the life’s autumn.

It is like that there too, at this very tim of the the year.

AT this time of the night.

At this time of the world.

August’s sadness seduces me regularly

It is so, i am thinking, in Valonia and more to the south.

At the cities which we do not know

and which names mean nothing to us.

 

Don’t southern stars fall there?

AT those times when te suitcases are packed

And when the boats are calm.

Like a storm that waves ships’ diaries

Of Giorgos Seferis and all the great poets of Alexandria.

 

Papers and cities which i reach only in this way.

In Donja Lastva there is balance of waters and letters.

Of traditions and times.

Harmony of consonants.

One more summer is leaving me…

And it is as if i am seeing it all for the first time.

Because those lights that are making the vawes at the sea

maybe in reality those are not my departures.

My August and my eight month.

That’s the world disappearing, that’s I dissapearing:

It is neither death, nor it is life.

And i am awaiting that at least one of the two arrives.

Somehow, i still love departures.

One more summer is leaving m

and at the sea i am observing our mutual disappearences,

in the sea and to the south,

at the far placed mirror,

in tommorrow’s wind.

And once again in the sea,

at the sea full of stars.

The boats are calm. And it is midnight.

Midnight at Lastva, Donja.

(1) Donja Lastva is a coastal neighbourhood in the town of Tivat, Montenegro, L. R. S.

I was packing the suitcases while the music was the loudest.

Somehow i love, i still love to leave.

To leave when they don’t notice it.

To leave behind one more summer.

And late August is leaving me. One more August.

Those ever more rare lights at the other shore—

those are someone else’s distant lives.

 

Those lights over there, that others can barely perceive,

i feel them by my fate –

those lights in the nearby hills,

which create the perfect shadows,

— it is us, it is I, these are the salts of our lives.

 

At the sea, only at the sea

Our mutual disapperances are mirrored.

At the sea, and sometimes in the wind.

 

One more summer is leaving me.

And I am thinking that it is I leaving for somewhere.

Boats are quiet. And it is midnight.

Midnight in Lastva, Donja.

One more August is leaving me.

One more eight month. Once again at the invisible road.

It is the same, i comfort myself, for the poets from Southern Italy,

It’s everywhere like that where stars and boats are calm.

At this time of the year.

Now, when we are ever coser to the life’s autumn.

It is like that there too, at this very tim of the the year.

AT this time of the night.

At this time of the world.

August’s sadness seduces me regularly

It is so, i am thinking, in Valonia and more to the south.

At the cities which we do not know

and which names mean nothing to us.

 

Don’t southern stars fall there?

AT those times when te suitcases are packed

And when the boats are calm.

Like a storm that waves ships’ diaries

Of Giorgos Seferis and all the great poets of Alexandria.

 

Papers and cities which i reach only in this way.

In Donja Lastva there is balance of waters and letters.

Of traditions and times.

Harmony of consonants.

One more summer is leaving me…

And it is as if i am seeing it all for the first time.

Because those lights that are making the vawes at the sea

maybe in reality those are not my departures.

My August and my eight month.

That’s the world disappearing, that’s I dissapearing:

It is neither death, nor it is life.

And i am awaiting that at least one of the two arrives.

Somehow, i still love departures.

One more summer is leaving m

and at the sea i am observing our mutual disappearences,

in the sea and to the south,

at the far placed mirror,

in tommorrow’s wind.

And once again in the sea,

at the sea full of stars.

The boats are calm. And it is midnight.

Midnight at Lastva, Donja.

(1) Donja Lastva is a coastal neighbourhood in the town of Tivat, Montenegro, L. R. S.

I was packing the suitcases while the music was the loudest.

Somehow i love, i still love to leave.

To leave when they don’t notice it.

To leave behind one more summer.

And late August is leaving me. One more August.

Those ever more rare lights at the other shore—

those are someone else’s distant lives.

 

Those lights over there, that others can barely perceive,

i feel them by my fate –

those lights in the nearby hills,

which create the perfect shadows,

— it is us, it is I, these are the salts of our lives.

 

At the sea, only at the sea

Our mutual disapperances are mirrored.

At the sea, and sometimes in the wind.

 

One more summer is leaving me.

And I am thinking that it is I leaving for somewhere.

Boats are quiet. And it is midnight.

Midnight in Lastva, Donja.

One more August is leaving me.

One more eight month. Once again at the invisible road.

It is the same, i comfort myself, for the poets from Southern Italy,

It’s everywhere like that where stars and boats are calm.

At this time of the year.

Now, when we are ever coser to the life’s autumn.

It is like that there too, at this very tim of the the year.

AT this time of the night.

At this time of the world.

August’s sadness seduces me regularly

It is so, i am thinking, in Valonia and more to the south.

At the cities which we do not know

and which names mean nothing to us.

 

Don’t southern stars fall there?

AT those times when te suitcases are packed

And when the boats are calm.

Like a storm that waves ships’ diaries

Of Giorgos Seferis and all the great poets of Alexandria.

 

Papers and cities which i reach only in this way.

In Donja Lastva there is balance of waters and letters.

Of traditions and times.

Harmony of consonants.

One more summer is leaving me…

And it is as if i am seeing it all for the first time.

Because those lights that are making the vawes at the sea

maybe in reality those are not my departures.

My August and my eight month.

That’s the world disappearing, that’s I dissapearing:

It is neither death, nor it is life.

And i am awaiting that at least one of the two arrives.

Somehow, i still love departures.

One more summer is leaving m

and at the sea i am observing our mutual disappearences,

in the sea and to the south,

at the far placed mirror,

in tommorrow’s wind.

And once again in the sea,

at the sea full of stars.

The boats are calm. And it is midnight.

Midnight at Lastva, Donja.

(1) Donja Lastva is a coastal neighbourhood in the town of Tivat, Montenegro, L. R. S.

I was packing the suitcases while the music was the loudest.

Somehow i love, i still love to leave.

To leave when they don’t notice it.

To leave behind one more summer.

And late August is leaving me. One more August.

Those ever more rare lights at the other shore—

those are someone else’s distant lives.

 

Those lights over there, that others can barely perceive,

i feel them by my fate –

those lights in the nearby hills,

which create the perfect shadows,

— it is us, it is I, these are the salts of our lives.

 

At the sea, only at the sea

Our mutual disapperances are mirrored.

At the sea, and sometimes in the wind.

 

One more summer is leaving me.

And I am thinking that it is I leaving for somewhere.

Boats are quiet. And it is midnight.

Midnight in Lastva, Donja.

One more August is leaving me.

One more eight month. Once again at the invisible road.

It is the same, i comfort myself, for the poets from Southern Italy,

It’s everywhere like that where stars and boats are calm.

At this time of the year.

Now, when we are ever coser to the life’s autumn.

It is like that there too, at this very tim of the the year.

AT this time of the night.

At this time of the world.

August’s sadness seduces me regularly

It is so, i am thinking, in Valonia and more to the south.

At the cities which we do not know

and which names mean nothing to us.

 

Don’t southern stars fall there?

AT those times when te suitcases are packed

And when the boats are calm.

Like a storm that waves ships’ diaries

Of Giorgos Seferis and all the great poets of Alexandria.

 

Papers and cities which i reach only in this way.

In Donja Lastva there is balance of waters and letters.

Of traditions and times.

Harmony of consonants.

One more summer is leaving me…

And it is as if i am seeing it all for the first time.

Because those lights that are making the vawes at the sea

maybe in reality those are not my departures.

My August and my eight month.

That’s the world disappearing, that’s I dissapearing:

It is neither death, nor it is life.

And i am awaiting that at least one of the two arrives.

Somehow, i still love departures.

One more summer is leaving m

and at the sea i am observing our mutual disappearences,

in the sea and to the south,

at the far placed mirror,

in tommorrow’s wind.

And once again in the sea,

at the sea full of stars.

The boats are calm. And it is midnight.

Midnight at Lastva, Donja.

(1) Donja Lastva is a coastal neighbourhood in the town of Tivat, Montenegro, L. R. S.

I was packing the suitcases while the music was the loudest.

Somehow i love, i still love to leave.

To leave when they don’t notice it.

To leave behind one more summer.

And late August is leaving me. One more August.

Those ever more rare lights at the other shore—

those are someone else’s distant lives.

 

Those lights over there, that others can barely perceive,

i feel them by my fate –

those lights in the nearby hills,

which create the perfect shadows,

— it is us, it is I, these are the salts of our lives.

 

At the sea, only at the sea

Our mutual disapperances are mirrored.

At the sea, and sometimes in the wind.

 

One more summer is leaving me.

And I am thinking that it is I leaving for somewhere.

Boats are quiet. And it is midnight.

Midnight in Lastva, Donja.

One more August is leaving me.

One more eight month. Once again at the invisible road.

It is the same, i comfort myself, for the poets from Southern Italy,

It’s everywhere like that where stars and boats are calm.

At this time of the year.

Now, when we are ever coser to the life’s autumn.

It is like that there too, at this very tim of the the year.

AT this time of the night.

At this time of the world.

August’s sadness seduces me regularly

It is so, i am thinking, in Valonia and more to the south.

At the cities which we do not know

and which names mean nothing to us.

 

Don’t southern stars fall there?

AT those times when te suitcases are packed

And when the boats are calm.

Like a storm that waves ships’ diaries

Of Giorgos Seferis and all the great poets of Alexandria.

 

Papers and cities which i reach only in this way.

In Donja Lastva there is balance of waters and letters.

Of traditions and times.

Harmony of consonants.

One more summer is leaving me…

And it is as if i am seeing it all for the first time.

Because those lights that are making the vawes at the sea

maybe in reality those are not my departures.

My August and my eight month.

That’s the world disappearing, that’s I dissapearing:

It is neither death, nor it is life.

And i am awaiting that at least one of the two arrives.

Somehow, i still love departures.

One more summer is leaving m

and at the sea i am observing our mutual disappearences,

in the sea and to the south,

at the far placed mirror,

in tommorrow’s wind.

And once again in the sea,

at the sea full of stars.

The boats are calm. And it is midnight.

Midnight at Lastva, Donja.

(1) Donja Lastva is a coastal neighbourhood in the town of Tivat, Montenegro, L. R. S.

I was packing the suitcases while the music was the loudest.

Somehow i love, i still love to leave.

To leave when they don’t notice it.

To leave behind one more summer.

And late August is leaving me. One more August.

Those ever more rare lights at the other shore—

those are someone else’s distant lives.

 

Those lights over there, that others can barely perceive,

i feel them by my fate –

those lights in the nearby hills,

which create the perfect shadows,

— it is us, it is I, these are the salts of our lives.

 

At the sea, only at the sea

Our mutual disapperances are mirrored.

At the sea, and sometimes in the wind.

 

One more summer is leaving me.

And I am thinking that it is I leaving for somewhere.

Boats are quiet. And it is midnight.

Midnight in Lastva, Donja.

One more August is leaving me.

One more eight month. Once again at the invisible road.

It is the same, i comfort myself, for the poets from Southern Italy,

It’s everywhere like that where stars and boats are calm.

At this time of the year.

Now, when we are ever coser to the life’s autumn.

It is like that there too, at this very tim of the the year.

AT this time of the night.

At this time of the world.

August’s sadness seduces me regularly

It is so, i am thinking, in Valonia and more to the south.

At the cities which we do not know

and which names mean nothing to us.

 

Don’t southern stars fall there?

AT those times when te suitcases are packed

And when the boats are calm.

Like a storm that waves ships’ diaries

Of Giorgos Seferis and all the great poets of Alexandria.

 

Papers and cities which i reach only in this way.

In Donja Lastva there is balance of waters and letters.

Of traditions and times.

Harmony of consonants.

One more summer is leaving me…

And it is as if i am seeing it all for the first time.

Because those lights that are making the vawes at the sea

maybe in reality those are not my departures.

My August and my eight month.

That’s the world disappearing, that’s I dissapearing:

It is neither death, nor it is life.

And i am awaiting that at least one of the two arrives.

Somehow, i still love departures.

One more summer is leaving m

and at the sea i am observing our mutual disappearences,

in the sea and to the south,

at the far placed mirror,

in tommorrow’s wind.

And once again in the sea,

at the sea full of stars.

The boats are calm. And it is midnight.

Midnight at Lastva, Donja.

(1) Donja Lastva is a coastal neighbourhood in the town of Tivat, Montenegro, L. R. S.

I was packing the suitcases while the music was the loudest.

Somehow i love, i still love to leave.

To leave when they don’t notice it.

To leave behind one more summer.

And late August is leaving me. One more August.

Those ever more rare lights at the other shore—

those are someone else’s distant lives.

 

Those lights over there, that others can barely perceive,

i feel them by my fate –

those lights in the nearby hills,

which create the perfect shadows,

— it is us, it is I, these are the salts of our lives.

 

At the sea, only at the sea

Our mutual disapperances are mirrored.

At the sea, and sometimes in the wind.

 

One more summer is leaving me.

And I am thinking that it is I leaving for somewhere.

Boats are quiet. And it is midnight.

Midnight in Lastva, Donja.

One more August is leaving me.

One more eight month. Once again at the invisible road.

It is the same, i comfort myself, for the poets from Southern Italy,

It’s everywhere like that where stars and boats are calm.

At this time of the year.

Now, when we are ever coser to the life’s autumn.

It is like that there too, at this very tim of the the year.

AT this time of the night.

At this time of the world.

August’s sadness seduces me regularly

It is so, i am thinking, in Valonia and more to the south.

At the cities which we do not know

and which names mean nothing to us.

 

Don’t southern stars fall there?

AT those times when te suitcases are packed

And when the boats are calm.

Like a storm that waves ships’ diaries

Of Giorgos Seferis and all the great poets of Alexandria.

 

Papers and cities which i reach only in this way.

In Donja Lastva there is balance of waters and letters.

Of traditions and times.

Harmony of consonants.

One more summer is leaving me…

And it is as if i am seeing it all for the first time.

Because those lights that are making the vawes at the sea

maybe in reality those are not my departures.

My August and my eight month.

That’s the world disappearing, that’s I dissapearing:

It is neither death, nor it is life.

And i am awaiting that at least one of the two arrives.

Somehow, i still love departures.

One more summer is leaving m

and at the sea i am observing our mutual disappearences,

in the sea and to the south,

at the far placed mirror,

in tommorrow’s wind.

And once again in the sea,

at the sea full of stars.

The boats are calm. And it is midnight.

Midnight at Lastva, Donja.

(1) Donja Lastva is a coastal neighbourhood in the town of Tivat, Montenegro, L. R. S.

I was packing the suitcases while the music was the loudest.

Somehow i love, i still love to leave.

To leave when they don’t notice it.

To leave behind one more summer.

And late August is leaving me. One more August.

Those ever more rare lights at the other shore—

those are someone else’s distant lives.

 

Those lights over there, that others can barely perceive,

i feel them by my fate –

those lights in the nearby hills,

which create the perfect shadows,

— it is us, it is I, these are the salts of our lives.

 

At the sea, only at the sea

Our mutual disapperances are mirrored.

At the sea, and sometimes in the wind.

 

One more summer is leaving me.

And I am thinking that it is I leaving for somewhere.

Boats are quiet. And it is midnight.

Midnight in Lastva, Donja.

One more August is leaving me.

One more eight month. Once again at the invisible road.

It is the same, i comfort myself, for the poets from Southern Italy,

It’s everywhere like that where stars and boats are calm.

At this time of the year.

Now, when we are ever coser to the life’s autumn.

It is like that there too, at this very tim of the the year.

AT this time of the night.

At this time of the world.

August’s sadness seduces me regularly

It is so, i am thinking, in Valonia and more to the south.

At the cities which we do not know

and which names mean nothing to us.

 

Don’t southern stars fall there?

AT those times when te suitcases are packed

And when the boats are calm.

Like a storm that waves ships’ diaries

Of Giorgos Seferis and all the great poets of Alexandria.

 

Papers and cities which i reach only in this way.

In Donja Lastva there is balance of waters and letters.

Of traditions and times.

Harmony of consonants.

One more summer is leaving me…

And it is as if i am seeing it all for the first time.

Because those lights that are making the vawes at the sea

maybe in reality those are not my departures.

My August and my eight month.

That’s the world disappearing, that’s I dissapearing:

It is neither death, nor it is life.

And i am awaiting that at least one of the two arrives.

Somehow, i still love departures.

One more summer is leaving m

and at the sea i am observing our mutual disappearences,

in the sea and to the south,

at the far placed mirror,

in tommorrow’s wind.

And once again in the sea,

at the sea full of stars.

The boats are calm. And it is midnight.

Midnight at Lastva, Donja.

(1) Donja Lastva is a coastal neighbourhood in the town of Tivat, Montenegro, L. R. S.

I was packing the suitcases while the music was the loudest.

Somehow i love, i still love to leave.

To leave when they don’t notice it.

To leave behind one more summer.

And late August is leaving me. One more August.

Those ever more rare lights at the other shore—

those are someone else’s distant lives.

 

Those lights over there, that others can barely perceive,

i feel them by my fate –

those lights in the nearby hills,

which create the perfect shadows,

— it is us, it is I, these are the salts of our lives.

 

At the sea, only at the sea

Our mutual disapperances are mirrored.

At the sea, and sometimes in the wind.

 

One more summer is leaving me.

And I am thinking that it is I leaving for somewhere.

Boats are quiet. And it is midnight.

Midnight in Lastva, Donja.

One more August is leaving me.

One more eight month. Once again at the invisible road.

It is the same, i comfort myself, for the poets from Southern Italy,

It’s everywhere like that where stars and boats are calm.

At this time of the year.

Now, when we are ever coser to the life’s autumn.

It is like that there too, at this very tim of the the year.

AT this time of the night.

At this time of the world.

August’s sadness seduces me regularly

It is so, i am thinking, in Valonia and more to the south.

At the cities which we do not know

and which names mean nothing to us.

 

Don’t southern stars fall there?

AT those times when te suitcases are packed

And when the boats are calm.

Like a storm that waves ships’ diaries

Of Giorgos Seferis and all the great poets of Alexandria.

 

Papers and cities which i reach only in this way.

In Donja Lastva there is balance of waters and letters.

Of traditions and times.

Harmony of consonants.

One more summer is leaving me…

And it is as if i am seeing it all for the first time.

Because those lights that are making the vawes at the sea

maybe in reality those are not my departures.

My August and my eight month.

That’s the world disappearing, that’s I dissapearing:

It is neither death, nor it is life.

And i am awaiting that at least one of the two arrives.

Somehow, i still love departures.

One more summer is leaving m

and at the sea i am observing our mutual disappearences,

in the sea and to the south,

at the far placed mirror,

in tommorrow’s wind.

And once again in the sea,

at the sea full of stars.

The boats are calm. And it is midnight.

Midnight at Lastva, Donja.

(1) Donja Lastva is a coastal neighbourhood in the town of Tivat, Montenegro, L. R. S.