Zapletena
o trnje iskona
obljubljena
tišinom čistilišta
samotna
u lažima premorena
neuka
neznanjem jastvovanja
probuđena
a duhom zaspala
umorna
bolom zgažena
tvoja je prolaznost
tihovala.
Things seem to die,
but die not.
The spring showers
Die on the bosom of the motherly Earth,
But rise again in fruits and leaves and flowers:
And every death is nothing but a birth.
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