| Milorad Matejic
YUGOSLAVIA orient@vkjetnet.co.yu Glass Mysterious like the religion, which has not yet found adequacy with the mob, floating, a sail, pushing clouds away. A disappearer into oblivious heights, before I sleep, hunting down thoughts in exile. Fear and tremor in a suit of white, between the pillows of eider-down and silk. Courage is circling the atmosphere of wandering rays. Mesmerized. Standing in a column of ripe, hypnotic fruit, imagining the foundations of time. A rain of words is pouring through the silence of the temple, the cruelty of the inevitable smile, a mirror reflecting the crystal depths of I. Under the sky of Mycenae flows the tunnel through my dream of glass. © Copyright, 2000, Milorad
Matejic. |