Duska’s intense and evocative poem of many people around us.
There are people
you don’t have to talk to understand them.
You don’t have to see them regularly
send them presents,
or to think about them,
but it makes you happy when
without your permission,
all of a sudden,
from nowhere,
not invited,
they come to your life.
There are people
you don’t have to write letters to
or to reply,
you don’t have to know their addresses,
or mother tongue.
But they’re very close to you,
familiar,
so real and present,
they’re able to influence your seasons,
rhythm of your verse,
colour of your voice, rhyme,
your clothes,
restaurant,
or meal and wine choice.
There are people
you don’t know almost anything about,
nothing more than you know
about the bird which randomly
shelter your view for a moment
while you staring
with your mind miles away,
striving to the sky, 
to nowhere,
and your thought, down,Rhyme,
to the bowels of the Earth,
as it is yours,
to the unfathomable darkness,
a light in your heart,
carried by invisible hand,
sometimes illuminates your way.
There are people
who with one simple e-mail
instead of light bulb,
light a little sun
on the ceiling of a dark room
where you’ve been
unsuccessfully trying for days
to make a decision,
is it worth,
making a breakfast once again,
changing a bedding once again,
chew once again,
if everything has to be as it is happening,
or you made, once, somewhere
a huge mistake
and now there is no going back,
you are, where you are.
There are people
who in your empty glass on the table,
with your vaguely reflected
traces of your overripe lips
and moisture of escaped tear,
by their intangible hand
pour the most drinkable wine
right at the moment
when the hand on the clock
almost slipped
on the side
where you marked
the end of everything,
the end of the world.
There are people who in their thoughts,
while plodding their hesitant steps
in aimless wanderings,
on the streets of their own city,
on a continent,
desperate because of their dreary lifestyle
And nonsense which is spreading all over the world,
without hope to ever stop,
just you,
they tie as a scarf
made of the most beautiful and the most tender silk,
and because of that real touch,
because of that yellow shade,
cashmere dapple
on that scarf,
realise at that very moment,
that not everything’s lost.
that there’s more,
and better,
and it is not all
that pointless, as it very often seems.
There are people
who illuminate paths
to your simple words
by their heavy and
dark thoughts,
with your pale face, 
season their lonely
Saturday dinner
and make laugh
blessed Christmas morning
like the world gets reborn
every Christmas again and again.
There are people
who with your hands,
which you crack your fingers with very often,
pinch them,
break them, and more often
you don’t even know what to do with them,
regularly and with love
water small flower buds
in freshly painted pots
on their balcony,
or in their garden,
or bashfully
offer armfuls of
spring natural herbs
to deer who gallantly
and almost inaudibly
pass through their
harder and harder catchable dream.
There are people
who when they get lost,
when they wish to kill themselves
or at least to get hidden for a moment,
in the infinity
or the universe’s black hole,
almost fondly,
stare at the sky
to catch there
at least one of your missing smiles,
and instead of drowning
in the deepest whirlpool of
heavily polluted local river,
they simply go to the first pub,
order a pint of larger,
and slowly bringing the glass to,
for a moment awaken, lips
silently
but devotionally
say your name.
There are people
who have alienated 
from everyone and everything,
and from themselves,
totally alienated
runaway,
banished themselves
dissolved everything behind,
gave up the past and future,
rejecting faith in both,
even discard the memory,
but sometimes,
walking on the edge of the knife
which they’ve been personally sharpening for years
to insanity,
to the judgment fence,
to the point of transition
or another side of everything,
when they reach point not to be,
to stop everything,
when it comes for the sky to come to the earth,
and put out the light of all lights,
the first lightning,
simply pause for a moment,
something gets switched somewhere
in the head,
in the brain or stomach, who knows,
they quizzically smile
and think of you.
There are people – and – there is you.
©Duška Vrhovac
Pix from Net.
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