Forfatter, journalist, foredragsholder og performer
Vucinas våbenskjold
Tv
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
trees,
the brown, no the beige sweater,
the one without buttons and man-made
materials.
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
sweater,
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
control,
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