Crna rotkva

Black Radish

I grate a black radish

as God grates snow,

I rub the spicy flakes

on the bamboo cutting board

they shoot onto the table,

the chairs, the kitchen floor, my hands.

I cut my finger

the whiteness

soaks up the blood.

God and I grate

in unison: He without losing

any delightful zest,

and I minus a few drops of blood

soothing a heat

I'm oblivious to.

So we grate,

He and I,

and grate one another,

until exhausted

by the same

hunger.

Outside, the blizzard

howls, with ease

and without a care,

buries our

mutual

threshold.

(Translated from the Serbian by Steven and Maja Teref)

Black Radish

Am grating the black radish

while outside

a fine snow

is falling,

am strewing the hottish, white flakes

onto a bambus-wood board

and they are scattering  even there where they are not allowed :

the table, chairs, kitchen floor, hands.

When I cut my finger

a drop of blood

gets soaked up by the whiteness.

God and me, on similar engagements,

in unity of permanent difference:

he without scattering of savoury hotness,

me with a drop of the blood less

which milds down  the hotness

without me even being aware of it.

So, we are grating for a long time

one and another,

and each other,

until overwhelmed,

though, by the always same

hunger.

And outside, the blizzard

beyond us lasts since long ago

and so easily

without a worry,

it drifts over any,

and even our common 

threshold.

(Translated by  Slobodan Cekić)

  Za Meju ♥