Narcisa Vucina

Forfatter, journalist, foredragsholder og performer

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Vucina våbenskjold

Vucinas våbenskjold



Our TV is sleeping in the quiet night

your eyes open

You 're lying down

as if you have left me

without saying a word

or even worse

as if l have to say the last good-bye

surrounded by green olive trees

I'm cold

I must put a sweater on, I'm cold,

the sweater my father has worn, my brother

has worn,

the sweater my mother has worn,

but which smells of my grandfather's olive


the brown, no the beige sweater,

the one without buttons and man-made


I must put a sweater on. On my upper body,

my cold body,

the sweater I have forgotten, the one that

breathes in the city's microbes,

imperceptibly breathes on me, of the olives,

my whole person, what a figure, a human,

her with the sweater, with warmth under the


under the skin, under the muscles, the bones,

the anemia

Now, then, I'm putting your sweater on.

Without control

I cannot help making love to you in the grass

or more precisely in an olive field.

Do you dare to open for a world without


do you dare to say something

at the smallest move,

the smallest discovery on the body's scenery?

If you by chance are allergic to the olives

you may decide where we shall lie

the landscape is yours