Izrasli su moji prijatelji na jednom stablu

u zelenim bluzama i roza bluzama

utamnomordim hlacama i svijetlomodrim hlacama:

vise neki kao jabuke, neki kao kruske,

neki kao narance ili kao grozdje.

Ja tresem stablo i moji se prijatelji ruse

i, bome, ubijaju se

ali – mora da sam bedast – to mi se sad cini

kao jedini nacin komunikacije s njima.

From: Odron

My friends are growing on a tree

wearing green shirts and pink shirts,

dark blue trousers and light blue trousers:

some of them are hanging like apples, or like pears,

some like oranges, all others like grapes.

I shake the tree and my friends fall down

and, by God, they kill themselves

but – I must be stupid – for the moment it seems to be

the only way to communicate with them.

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