Mirjana Miric Biography

Mother.
your resplendent chariot
courses through my vein,
the flesh of the grape
...

I could have loved a bird.
You do not decide to whom
you gift
your first scarlet,
...

I await thee at the ending of Summer,

my beautiful Lady of Dusk,
...

I see you perched, a blackened, feathered king,
you rest amid the cold, alone;
no longer a sprouting duo of darkness, like in Spring,
your lady absent, non-existing, gone.
...

You are the cauldron
in which I cook my love:
paleness, bones and moonlight
tossed into the fire,
...