Summer 2004 • Vol. XXVI No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 2004 |


From Croatian.   Blood drains down the western sky and from burst pomegranates in the garden But evening hails from the east with a blue face and the west pales, the pomegranates redden You flee toward me frightened of a tree branch in the dark and you are silent Why is your body suddenly a flame? Oh, how the pomegranates burst and burn! Not even the stars will emerge so that the quiet burning in the garden be stronger

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