.


.
.
.
.
.
                                LALOŠKA
                                Đoletu

                                Polako, polako, natenane
                                tišina miluje polja.
                                Sve k'o da stoji na sve strane
                                sem jata ptica
                                koja pletu
                                vremena bolja
                                u niskom letu
                                u duge letnje dane.

                                Tek cvrčku nekom zaigra žica,
                                zacvrči iz guste trave.
                                Prospe se pesma tamburica
                                pa boja zvuka
                                skoci s tišine
                                i usred jave
                                k'o zvezda sine
                                šarenog, vedrog lica.

                                Lakog vetrića nemirna ruka
                                obori klasove žita.
                                A onda podigne dva tri struka
                                i iznenada
                                sred polja snena
                                evo gde skita
                                bulka crvena
                                sačinjena od zvuka.

                                Dalje se razvlače lenja stada
                                sto žućkastu travu pasu.
                                A sunce peče i nigde hlada,
                                i sred tog mira
                                tek dorat rže,
                                u punom kasu
                                dok juri brže
                                remeti mir što vlada.

                                Tu čiča skriven ispod šešira
                                sa đerma zahvata vodu.
                                Promuklo čekrk poče da svira
                                kad vasiona
                                sive prašine
                                dobi po svodu
                                šare fine
                                koje već sunce spira.

                                Na kraju svega čuči kolona
                                kuća u jednom nizu.
                                Odatle dopiru crkvena zvona
                                i put se sivi
                                pruža k'o strela,
                                prilazi blizu
                                početku sela
                                otkad je našeg eona.

                                U svakoj avliji paor živi
                                natenane, polako.
                                Misli mu uvek u svojoj njivi
                                dok mlada snaša
                                s pendžera gledi
                                veče svako
                                kad dan izbledi
                                na sokak prašni, sivi.

                                Ova idila je večnost naša
                                i nema tog ko je briše.
                                Dok je nas biće i salaša,
                                svitanja zorom,
                                sunca i neba,
                                trave sto diše,
                                paorskog hleba
                                i mirisnog vetra dašak.

                                I ja sam sanjala s teškom morom
                                oluje vetrova mraka.
                                Izroni lice sa novom borom,
                                al' nesta i opet
                                oči moje
                                večnog dečaka
                                osmehe broje
                                dok šetamo našim šorom.

                               Dragana Konstantinović
..
.

.
.
.
Back to POEZIJA
1