A Holy Week Poem by Sibila Petlevski

We blew the balloons for six whole days,
thought there was no other way one could
frame the breath. Manna was falling from
the sky on our ways, sweet and tepid like milk
from a breast. Oh, God! We could have reached
one hundred percent the same with our kisses,
we could have done it also by breathing onto
the glass, so that fog would write our name
on a clear glass, and say instead of us we are
alive, so that our writing transfers the warmth
without a touch or a sound, and makes it possible
for us to be simply here and not entangled in a net
of blood, not like hungry dogs to be found,
not with forever hungry heart that roars from
our breasts and the lot. We blew the balloons and
then tore them with a knife for six whole days.
On the seventh we took some rest in our life.

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek and the author