They drag themselves with a feeble gait,
none like the other, each its own.
In a corner of the skull, wet from the rain,
my hound hides from the world, alone.
It snarls no more, just quietly shivers,
as a swarm of words like a hoop draws tight.
Sometimes, a sharp revenge flashes through,
like a brief spark cutting the dark of night.
Misli
Vuku se nejakim hodom,
nijedna drugoj nalik nije.
U uglu lobanje, mokro od kiše,
pseto se moje od svijeta krije.
Ne reži više, samo tiho drhti,
dok ga roj riječi ko obruč steže.
Ponekad bljesne oštra osveta,
ko kratka iskra što mrak presiječe.