The mystic glass bead necklace you crafted once
and sealed with love around my timid aura
still glows through the dark silence
where the gravel island beech is slipping away
leaving behind the astral thread for me

to follow through the scattered masquerade mazes and wrong turns
where I roam in the grainy spaces of lost times as a narcotic spell.

In the beat of dreams I still return back to the ethereal Island house
that stands now lonely,
aging through the stairway’s prism sliced with long glooms
over the tight, crowded, curved stone street.
There, we hug under the big fig tree shadow,
and chat about years we missed in the back loggia,
where you are, as usual, one drop of lemon, a handful of roasted almonds,
a few raisins, and saffron spice away
from finishing the last touch of the soul lumblija bread
awaiting with a sunny smile a new loud reunion jubilee
magically encrypted in the circles of the family tortoise memory.

Suddenly, the electric clock beeps through the slid bits
of the evading dawn light
and speedy morning chomps the festivity
while braking the glass beads string
scattering warm drops of our bonds
over the white, lonely, city nursing-home floor.
I’ll wait for your next awaking
in a form of a ghostly breeze streaming from the room window,
I’ll pick the glass beads
and place the glowing sparks in your cheerful almond eyes.

(To Katija from Vela Luka, Korcula, Croatia, my very dear family member who died in July 2013. Thankfully, I had written this poem in June 2012 before Katija’s death, and the family members translated the poem and read to her, and she was touched by that breeze in the nursing home.  Neka ti je laka zemlja….)

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