Lament nad BeogradomMy friend Yan Mayen, and my land of Srem,More Like This
Paris, my dead comrades, Chinese cherry trees,
Appear to me as visions, while I lie here silent, watching, dying,
And cold, like a log upon the aches of a fire.
Only, we are no longer as we were, living, nor stars,
But like monsters, polyps, dolphins,
That tumble past, swimming, and vanish,
Shouting: “All is ashes, dust, and death” –
And cry in Russian: “Nichevo” –
And in Spanish: “Nada.”
But you arise, beneath the shining star of dawn,
With Avala’s blue distant mountain far below.
You glitter, when the stars have faded with the morn,
Then, sun-like, melt the ice of tears and last year’s snow.
In you there is no empty vanity or death.
You glisten like an unearthed sword from bygone years.
In you is all revived, set dancing, given breath,
Renewed, refreshed, like bright day and like children’s tears.
And when my voice, and eyes, and breath are stilled at la