কারুবাক 
Melita Mely Ratkovic
Moonless night,
the street lamp is flashing
through the thick fog.
On a nearby lake,
the last song of a dying bird,
the clock strikes midnight.
The soul is a white swan,
the hands coincided
old wall clock.
Twelve beats,
announces midnight.
Deadly feeling of cold
permeates every pore,
they grow by the windows
raindrops, carried by the wind.
Spooky cold, cruel
interrupted dreams, restlessness.
The song died, in grave silence
the soul is a white swan…
