One day
I will be torn to pieces
By a pack of dogs
At the train station
Next to the man
Stenching of slaughtered
Pigs’ blood
They will pull
My intestines out
Plastered by the rain
To the city’s pavement
In the horridness of mud
And smell of ground
A voracious raven
Will land on me.
I have been hounded
By the curse of the right hand
Of the thumb that fingers
The handle by
An unfelt sorrow
It carries me away and away
Without counting border crossings
Searching for secret paths
To my old home.
Oh, when gray shadows of fog
Let go of me, I shall open my heart
Overwhelmed by blood
Among roses
Of my former garden
And build a nest out of birds’ bones
Let it sing…let it sing…
Don’t take me
To the abandoned room
Where black, woodworm infested
Closets reign…
Life is not just a heartless
Train station.

—
S.Eta Grubešić of Croatia is an ex-journalist, short story writer, poet and photographer. Her works have been published in various books, literary e-journals and portals, including: Bones Journal 5, Under the Basho Journal 2014, Hedgerow, Sonic Boom journal, Brass Bell, Newsletter, Silver Birch Press…