Great Britain
Summer, late summer
It is as if we are in the late summer, i feel.
In that time, which visibly dies away by itself.
Like people dissapear, former people,
now even with former names, the names that are by now unimportant to all.
There are so many which no one remembers,
— how many of those whom no one remembers And what woud one do with those numbers, Their days are in others’ memories,
and even those memories as soon as tomorrow will be dead.
And us, who haven’t learned that yet.
But, the sea is still somehow calm.
Adriatic is being silent with us.
It’s as if suddeny there is hope. The sea is really calm and lonely lighthouses announce different days.
The illusion of someone’s unexpected arrival.
The silence of the late summer is still ruthless.
Bocce players are finishing for tonihgt,
there’s no more tumult.
In such way our lives too, merely fall silent.
The last sound, which noone claims.
I remember in Cetinje we called them differently:
I’ve never lost in bocce balls.
Not even from much older than I.
That lonesome, in fact a bit posh play too,
no touching.
Again that sharp noise, ball against a ball.
Puff. The end. Life is not going on anymore. Puff, puff…
Or something like that. Sound which is a tongue.
Straight to the sould, straight to the heart.
Only silence can understand that.
The continuum has stopped even before we got here.
That narrow space for hitting — life into life.
Emptiness into emptiness.
And it echoes early, always too early.
When we think that the game had just began. But it’s over instantly.
Bocce players are finishing too.
The summer is leaving. One more move or two, our eyes are at the end of the terrain and they withdraw unto themselves. Our eyes.
The eyes don’t listen to the sound of the bocce ball.
Those eyes that invisibly disappear, not knowing the time.
(And they say that the eyes get old the last.)
Even before the late summer,
silent Bocce players are leaving. Each on their own way.
The summer is leaving, life is leaving.
But we are still alive somehow…
In that sound that rushes to the sea,
unobtrusive, calm, ours …
Late summer which is us personally
In words and emptiness that ecoes tonight
via Boka bay and further,
much further…
The summer is leaving. And Bocce players.
are finishing for tonight.
And eyes are the grey balls of dissapearance.
The circles have just passed by.
The summer and i are leaving.
Translated by Lena Ruth Stefanovic
FRANCE
Summer, late summer
It is as if we are in the late summer, i feel.
In that time, which visibly dies away by itself.
Like people dissapear, former people,
now even with former names, the names that are by now unimportant to all.
There are so many which no one remembers,
— how many of those whom no one remembers And what woud one do with those numbers, Their days are in others’ memories,
and even those memories as soon as tomorrow will be dead.
And us, who haven’t learned that yet.
But, the sea is still somehow calm.
Adriatic is being silent with us.
It’s as if suddeny there is hope. The sea is really calm and lonely lighthouses announce different days.
The illusion of someone’s unexpected arrival.
The silence of the late summer is still ruthless.
Bocce players are finishing for tonihgt,
there’s no more tumult.
In such way our lives too, merely fall silent.
The last sound, which noone claims.
I remember in Cetinje we called them differently:
I’ve never lost in bocce balls.
Not even from much older than I.
That lonesome, in fact a bit posh play too,
no touching.
Again that sharp noise, ball against a ball.
Puff. The end. Life is not going on anymore. Puff, puff…
Or something like that. Sound which is a tongue.
Straight to the sould, straight to the heart.
Only silence can understand that.
The continuum has stopped even before we got here.
That narrow space for hitting — life into life.
Emptiness into emptiness.
And it echoes early, always too early.
When we think that the game had just began. But it’s over instantly.
Bocce players are finishing too.
The summer is leaving. One more move or two, our eyes are at the end of the terrain and they withdraw unto themselves. Our eyes.
The eyes don’t listen to the sound of the bocce ball.
Those eyes that invisibly disappear, not knowing the time.
(And they say that the eyes get old the last.)
Even before the late summer,
silent Bocce players are leaving. Each on their own way.
The summer is leaving, life is leaving.
But we are still alive somehow…
In that sound that rushes to the sea,
unobtrusive, calm, ours …
Late summer which is us personally
In words and emptiness that ecoes tonight
via Boka bay and further,
much further…
The summer is leaving. And Bocce players.
are finishing for tonight.
And eyes are the grey balls of dissapearance.
The circles have just passed by.
The summer and i are leaving.
Translated by Lena Ruth Stefanovic
Germany
Summer, late summer
It is as if we are in the late summer, i feel.
In that time, which visibly dies away by itself.
Like people dissapear, former people,
now even with former names, the names that are by now unimportant to all.
There are so many which no one remembers,
— how many of those whom no one remembers And what woud one do with those numbers, Their days are in others’ memories,
and even those memories as soon as tomorrow will be dead.
And us, who haven’t learned that yet.
But, the sea is still somehow calm.
Adriatic is being silent with us.
It’s as if suddeny there is hope. The sea is really calm and lonely lighthouses announce different days.
The illusion of someone’s unexpected arrival.
The silence of the late summer is still ruthless.
Bocce players are finishing for tonihgt,
there’s no more tumult.
In such way our lives too, merely fall silent.
The last sound, which noone claims.
I remember in Cetinje we called them differently:
I’ve never lost in bocce balls.
Not even from much older than I.
That lonesome, in fact a bit posh play too,
no touching.
Again that sharp noise, ball against a ball.
Puff. The end. Life is not going on anymore. Puff, puff…
Or something like that. Sound which is a tongue.
Straight to the sould, straight to the heart.
Only silence can understand that.
The continuum has stopped even before we got here.
That narrow space for hitting — life into life.
Emptiness into emptiness.
And it echoes early, always too early.
When we think that the game had just began. But it’s over instantly.
Bocce players are finishing too.
The summer is leaving. One more move or two, our eyes are at the end of the terrain and they withdraw unto themselves. Our eyes.
The eyes don’t listen to the sound of the bocce ball.
Those eyes that invisibly disappear, not knowing the time.
(And they say that the eyes get old the last.)
Even before the late summer,
silent Bocce players are leaving. Each on their own way.
The summer is leaving, life is leaving.
But we are still alive somehow…
In that sound that rushes to the sea,
unobtrusive, calm, ours …
Late summer which is us personally
In words and emptiness that ecoes tonight
via Boka bay and further,
much further…
The summer is leaving. And Bocce players.
are finishing for tonight.
And eyes are the grey balls of dissapearance.
The circles have just passed by.
The summer and i are leaving.
Translated by Lena Ruth Stefanovic
Italia
Summer, late summer
It is as if we are in the late summer, i feel.
In that time, which visibly dies away by itself.
Like people dissapear, former people,
now even with former names, the names that are by now unimportant to all.
There are so many which no one remembers,
— how many of those whom no one remembers And what woud one do with those numbers, Their days are in others’ memories,
and even those memories as soon as tomorrow will be dead.
And us, who haven’t learned that yet.
But, the sea is still somehow calm.
Adriatic is being silent with us.
It’s as if suddeny there is hope. The sea is really calm and lonely lighthouses announce different days.
The illusion of someone’s unexpected arrival.
The silence of the late summer is still ruthless.
Bocce players are finishing for tonihgt,
there’s no more tumult.
In such way our lives too, merely fall silent.
The last sound, which noone claims.
I remember in Cetinje we called them differently:
I’ve never lost in bocce balls.
Not even from much older than I.
That lonesome, in fact a bit posh play too,
no touching.
Again that sharp noise, ball against a ball.
Puff. The end. Life is not going on anymore. Puff, puff…
Or something like that. Sound which is a tongue.
Straight to the sould, straight to the heart.
Only silence can understand that.
The continuum has stopped even before we got here.
That narrow space for hitting — life into life.
Emptiness into emptiness.
And it echoes early, always too early.
When we think that the game had just began. But it’s over instantly.
Bocce players are finishing too.
The summer is leaving. One more move or two, our eyes are at the end of the terrain and they withdraw unto themselves. Our eyes.
The eyes don’t listen to the sound of the bocce ball.
Those eyes that invisibly disappear, not knowing the time.
(And they say that the eyes get old the last.)
Even before the late summer,
silent Bocce players are leaving. Each on their own way.
The summer is leaving, life is leaving.
But we are still alive somehow…
In that sound that rushes to the sea,
unobtrusive, calm, ours …
Late summer which is us personally
In words and emptiness that ecoes tonight
via Boka bay and further,
much further…
The summer is leaving. And Bocce players.
are finishing for tonight.
And eyes are the grey balls of dissapearance.
The circles have just passed by.
The summer and i are leaving.
Translated by Lena Ruth Stefanovic
Albania
Summer, late summer
It is as if we are in the late summer, i feel.
In that time, which visibly dies away by itself.
Like people dissapear, former people,
now even with former names, the names that are by now unimportant to all.
There are so many which no one remembers,
— how many of those whom no one remembers And what woud one do with those numbers, Their days are in others’ memories,
and even those memories as soon as tomorrow will be dead.
And us, who haven’t learned that yet.
But, the sea is still somehow calm.
Adriatic is being silent with us.
It’s as if suddeny there is hope. The sea is really calm and lonely lighthouses announce different days.
The illusion of someone’s unexpected arrival.
The silence of the late summer is still ruthless.
Bocce players are finishing for tonihgt,
there’s no more tumult.
In such way our lives too, merely fall silent.
The last sound, which noone claims.
I remember in Cetinje we called them differently:
I’ve never lost in bocce balls.
Not even from much older than I.
That lonesome, in fact a bit posh play too,
no touching.
Again that sharp noise, ball against a ball.
Puff. The end. Life is not going on anymore. Puff, puff…
Or something like that. Sound which is a tongue.
Straight to the sould, straight to the heart.
Only silence can understand that.
The continuum has stopped even before we got here.
That narrow space for hitting — life into life.
Emptiness into emptiness.
And it echoes early, always too early.
When we think that the game had just began. But it’s over instantly.
Bocce players are finishing too.
The summer is leaving. One more move or two, our eyes are at the end of the terrain and they withdraw unto themselves. Our eyes.
The eyes don’t listen to the sound of the bocce ball.
Those eyes that invisibly disappear, not knowing the time.
(And they say that the eyes get old the last.)
Even before the late summer,
silent Bocce players are leaving. Each on their own way.
The summer is leaving, life is leaving.
But we are still alive somehow…
In that sound that rushes to the sea,
unobtrusive, calm, ours …
Late summer which is us personally
In words and emptiness that ecoes tonight
via Boka bay and further,
much further…
The summer is leaving. And Bocce players.
are finishing for tonight.
And eyes are the grey balls of dissapearance.
The circles have just passed by.
The summer and i are leaving.
Translated by Lena Ruth Stefanovic
Poland
Summer, late summer
It is as if we are in the late summer, i feel.
In that time, which visibly dies away by itself.
Like people dissapear, former people,
now even with former names, the names that are by now unimportant to all.
There are so many which no one remembers,
— how many of those whom no one remembers And what woud one do with those numbers, Their days are in others’ memories,
and even those memories as soon as tomorrow will be dead.
And us, who haven’t learned that yet.
But, the sea is still somehow calm.
Adriatic is being silent with us.
It’s as if suddeny there is hope. The sea is really calm and lonely lighthouses announce different days.
The illusion of someone’s unexpected arrival.
The silence of the late summer is still ruthless.
Bocce players are finishing for tonihgt,
there’s no more tumult.
In such way our lives too, merely fall silent.
The last sound, which noone claims.
I remember in Cetinje we called them differently:
I’ve never lost in bocce balls.
Not even from much older than I.
That lonesome, in fact a bit posh play too,
no touching.
Again that sharp noise, ball against a ball.
Puff. The end. Life is not going on anymore. Puff, puff…
Or something like that. Sound which is a tongue.
Straight to the sould, straight to the heart.
Only silence can understand that.
The continuum has stopped even before we got here.
That narrow space for hitting — life into life.
Emptiness into emptiness.
And it echoes early, always too early.
When we think that the game had just began. But it’s over instantly.
Bocce players are finishing too.
The summer is leaving. One more move or two, our eyes are at the end of the terrain and they withdraw unto themselves. Our eyes.
The eyes don’t listen to the sound of the bocce ball.
Those eyes that invisibly disappear, not knowing the time.
(And they say that the eyes get old the last.)
Even before the late summer,
silent Bocce players are leaving. Each on their own way.
The summer is leaving, life is leaving.
But we are still alive somehow…
In that sound that rushes to the sea,
unobtrusive, calm, ours …
Late summer which is us personally
In words and emptiness that ecoes tonight
via Boka bay and further,
much further…
The summer is leaving. And Bocce players.
are finishing for tonight.
And eyes are the grey balls of dissapearance.
The circles have just passed by.
The summer and i are leaving.
Translated by Lena Ruth Stefanovic
Russia
Summer, late summer
It is as if we are in the late summer, i feel.
In that time, which visibly dies away by itself.
Like people dissapear, former people,
now even with former names, the names that are by now unimportant to all.
There are so many which no one remembers,
— how many of those whom no one remembers And what woud one do with those numbers, Their days are in others’ memories,
and even those memories as soon as tomorrow will be dead.
And us, who haven’t learned that yet.
But, the sea is still somehow calm.
Adriatic is being silent with us.
It’s as if suddeny there is hope. The sea is really calm and lonely lighthouses announce different days.
The illusion of someone’s unexpected arrival.
The silence of the late summer is still ruthless.
Bocce players are finishing for tonihgt,
there’s no more tumult.
In such way our lives too, merely fall silent.
The last sound, which noone claims.
I remember in Cetinje we called them differently:
I’ve never lost in bocce balls.
Not even from much older than I.
That lonesome, in fact a bit posh play too,
no touching.
Again that sharp noise, ball against a ball.
Puff. The end. Life is not going on anymore. Puff, puff…
Or something like that. Sound which is a tongue.
Straight to the sould, straight to the heart.
Only silence can understand that.
The continuum has stopped even before we got here.
That narrow space for hitting — life into life.
Emptiness into emptiness.
And it echoes early, always too early.
When we think that the game had just began. But it’s over instantly.
Bocce players are finishing too.
The summer is leaving. One more move or two, our eyes are at the end of the terrain and they withdraw unto themselves. Our eyes.
The eyes don’t listen to the sound of the bocce ball.
Those eyes that invisibly disappear, not knowing the time.
(And they say that the eyes get old the last.)
Even before the late summer,
silent Bocce players are leaving. Each on their own way.
The summer is leaving, life is leaving.
But we are still alive somehow…
In that sound that rushes to the sea,
unobtrusive, calm, ours …
Late summer which is us personally
In words and emptiness that ecoes tonight
via Boka bay and further,
much further…
The summer is leaving. And Bocce players.
are finishing for tonight.
And eyes are the grey balls of dissapearance.
The circles have just passed by.
The summer and i are leaving.
Translated by Lena Ruth Stefanovic
Slovakia
Summer, late summer
It is as if we are in the late summer, i feel.
In that time, which visibly dies away by itself.
Like people dissapear, former people,
now even with former names, the names that are by now unimportant to all.
There are so many which no one remembers,
— how many of those whom no one remembers And what woud one do with those numbers, Their days are in others’ memories,
and even those memories as soon as tomorrow will be dead.
And us, who haven’t learned that yet.
But, the sea is still somehow calm.
Adriatic is being silent with us.
It’s as if suddeny there is hope. The sea is really calm and lonely lighthouses announce different days.
The illusion of someone’s unexpected arrival.
The silence of the late summer is still ruthless.
Bocce players are finishing for tonihgt,
there’s no more tumult.
In such way our lives too, merely fall silent.
The last sound, which noone claims.
I remember in Cetinje we called them differently:
I’ve never lost in bocce balls.
Not even from much older than I.
That lonesome, in fact a bit posh play too,
no touching.
Again that sharp noise, ball against a ball.
Puff. The end. Life is not going on anymore. Puff, puff…
Or something like that. Sound which is a tongue.
Straight to the sould, straight to the heart.
Only silence can understand that.
The continuum has stopped even before we got here.
That narrow space for hitting — life into life.
Emptiness into emptiness.
And it echoes early, always too early.
When we think that the game had just began. But it’s over instantly.
Bocce players are finishing too.
The summer is leaving. One more move or two, our eyes are at the end of the terrain and they withdraw unto themselves. Our eyes.
The eyes don’t listen to the sound of the bocce ball.
Those eyes that invisibly disappear, not knowing the time.
(And they say that the eyes get old the last.)
Even before the late summer,
silent Bocce players are leaving. Each on their own way.
The summer is leaving, life is leaving.
But we are still alive somehow…
In that sound that rushes to the sea,
unobtrusive, calm, ours …
Late summer which is us personally
In words and emptiness that ecoes tonight
via Boka bay and further,
much further…
The summer is leaving. And Bocce players.
are finishing for tonight.
And eyes are the grey balls of dissapearance.
The circles have just passed by.
The summer and i are leaving.
Translated by Lena Ruth Stefanovic
Sweden
Summer, late summer
It is as if we are in the late summer, i feel.
In that time, which visibly dies away by itself.
Like people dissapear, former people,
now even with former names, the names that are by now unimportant to all.
There are so many which no one remembers,
— how many of those whom no one remembers And what woud one do with those numbers, Their days are in others’ memories,
and even those memories as soon as tomorrow will be dead.
And us, who haven’t learned that yet.
But, the sea is still somehow calm.
Adriatic is being silent with us.
It’s as if suddeny there is hope. The sea is really calm and lonely lighthouses announce different days.
The illusion of someone’s unexpected arrival.
The silence of the late summer is still ruthless.
Bocce players are finishing for tonihgt,
there’s no more tumult.
In such way our lives too, merely fall silent.
The last sound, which noone claims.
I remember in Cetinje we called them differently:
I’ve never lost in bocce balls.
Not even from much older than I.
That lonesome, in fact a bit posh play too,
no touching.
Again that sharp noise, ball against a ball.
Puff. The end. Life is not going on anymore. Puff, puff…
Or something like that. Sound which is a tongue.
Straight to the sould, straight to the heart.
Only silence can understand that.
The continuum has stopped even before we got here.
That narrow space for hitting — life into life.
Emptiness into emptiness.
And it echoes early, always too early.
When we think that the game had just began. But it’s over instantly.
Bocce players are finishing too.
The summer is leaving. One more move or two, our eyes are at the end of the terrain and they withdraw unto themselves. Our eyes.
The eyes don’t listen to the sound of the bocce ball.
Those eyes that invisibly disappear, not knowing the time.
(And they say that the eyes get old the last.)
Even before the late summer,
silent Bocce players are leaving. Each on their own way.
The summer is leaving, life is leaving.
But we are still alive somehow…
In that sound that rushes to the sea,
unobtrusive, calm, ours …
Late summer which is us personally
In words and emptiness that ecoes tonight
via Boka bay and further,
much further…
The summer is leaving. And Bocce players.
are finishing for tonight.
And eyes are the grey balls of dissapearance.
The circles have just passed by.
The summer and i are leaving.
Translated by Lena Ruth Stefanovic
Slovenija
Summer, late summer
It is as if we are in the late summer, i feel.
In that time, which visibly dies away by itself.
Like people dissapear, former people,
now even with former names, the names that are by now unimportant to all.
There are so many which no one remembers,
— how many of those whom no one remembers And what woud one do with those numbers, Their days are in others’ memories,
and even those memories as soon as tomorrow will be dead.
And us, who haven’t learned that yet.
But, the sea is still somehow calm.
Adriatic is being silent with us.
It’s as if suddeny there is hope. The sea is really calm and lonely lighthouses announce different days.
The illusion of someone’s unexpected arrival.
The silence of the late summer is still ruthless.
Bocce players are finishing for tonihgt,
there’s no more tumult.
In such way our lives too, merely fall silent.
The last sound, which noone claims.
I remember in Cetinje we called them differently:
I’ve never lost in bocce balls.
Not even from much older than I.
That lonesome, in fact a bit posh play too,
no touching.
Again that sharp noise, ball against a ball.
Puff. The end. Life is not going on anymore. Puff, puff…
Or something like that. Sound which is a tongue.
Straight to the sould, straight to the heart.
Only silence can understand that.
The continuum has stopped even before we got here.
That narrow space for hitting — life into life.
Emptiness into emptiness.
And it echoes early, always too early.
When we think that the game had just began. But it’s over instantly.
Bocce players are finishing too.
The summer is leaving. One more move or two, our eyes are at the end of the terrain and they withdraw unto themselves. Our eyes.
The eyes don’t listen to the sound of the bocce ball.
Those eyes that invisibly disappear, not knowing the time.
(And they say that the eyes get old the last.)
Even before the late summer,
silent Bocce players are leaving. Each on their own way.
The summer is leaving, life is leaving.
But we are still alive somehow…
In that sound that rushes to the sea,
unobtrusive, calm, ours …
Late summer which is us personally
In words and emptiness that ecoes tonight
via Boka bay and further,
much further…
The summer is leaving. And Bocce players.
are finishing for tonight.
And eyes are the grey balls of dissapearance.
The circles have just passed by.
The summer and i are leaving.
Translated by Lena Ruth Stefanovic
North Macedonia
Summer, late summer
It is as if we are in the late summer, i feel.
In that time, which visibly dies away by itself.
Like people dissapear, former people,
now even with former names, the names that are by now unimportant to all.
There are so many which no one remembers,
— how many of those whom no one remembers And what woud one do with those numbers, Their days are in others’ memories,
and even those memories as soon as tomorrow will be dead.
And us, who haven’t learned that yet.
But, the sea is still somehow calm.
Adriatic is being silent with us.
It’s as if suddeny there is hope. The sea is really calm and lonely lighthouses announce different days.
The illusion of someone’s unexpected arrival.
The silence of the late summer is still ruthless.
Bocce players are finishing for tonihgt,
there’s no more tumult.
In such way our lives too, merely fall silent.
The last sound, which noone claims.
I remember in Cetinje we called them differently:
I’ve never lost in bocce balls.
Not even from much older than I.
That lonesome, in fact a bit posh play too,
no touching.
Again that sharp noise, ball against a ball.
Puff. The end. Life is not going on anymore. Puff, puff…
Or something like that. Sound which is a tongue.
Straight to the sould, straight to the heart.
Only silence can understand that.
The continuum has stopped even before we got here.
That narrow space for hitting — life into life.
Emptiness into emptiness.
And it echoes early, always too early.
When we think that the game had just began. But it’s over instantly.
Bocce players are finishing too.
The summer is leaving. One more move or two, our eyes are at the end of the terrain and they withdraw unto themselves. Our eyes.
The eyes don’t listen to the sound of the bocce ball.
Those eyes that invisibly disappear, not knowing the time.
(And they say that the eyes get old the last.)
Even before the late summer,
silent Bocce players are leaving. Each on their own way.
The summer is leaving, life is leaving.
But we are still alive somehow…
In that sound that rushes to the sea,
unobtrusive, calm, ours …
Late summer which is us personally
In words and emptiness that ecoes tonight
via Boka bay and further,
much further…
The summer is leaving. And Bocce players.
are finishing for tonight.
And eyes are the grey balls of dissapearance.
The circles have just passed by.
The summer and i are leaving.
Translated by Lena Ruth Stefanovic