Sandra Fabac, Poem
Moderator 
CHAMELEON
Beneath the fig leaf
humanity first hid its own fragility
believing it could outwit time
since then we have been changing colours
in the reflection of windows
a bowl of red, fragrant cherries on the table
burns in the silence of summer
their skin resembles small hearts of gods
forgotten, no longer invoked
cities have taught us
to pass through one another
without touch
faces have become filters
words a novel
in which every ending
arrives too late for tenderness
Yet beneath the skin something older still survives
a trace of the first unextinguished fires
when people believed
the stars could hear them
the chameleon knows this
it does not change colour to deceive the world
but to remain in harmony with it
only humans
change their faces
and lose themselves in the process
upon the shoulders of morning
the pigments of dawn spill through the trees
as though the sky were trying to heal itself
from what we have become
And the earth continues to forgive
even after war
even after rivers learned to carry ash
instead of reflection
within each of us
there is a space that still breathes
an unspent place of light that does not give up
not as victory
but as a hand that does not return pain
perhaps the meaning of being human is this
not to disappear into change
but to learn how to change without hatred
for only those who do not find an enemy
in their own shadow
can return a face to the world
and when that finally happens
every window will carry a quiet sun
and humanity, like the old skin of a chameleon
will finally shed itself
without resistance
without story
only a face remains
that no longer needs a mask
and the earth
that no longer needs to forgive
SILENCE OF THE CLOCK HANDS
(Return)
I sit
on an old wooden chair
that creaks
in the memory of absolute peace
I look at
a cracked plate
where scattered walnuts have become a whole
I ask quietly
whether life
still has life within itself
when it grows tired
of its own duration
On the edge of the window
a fig leaf trembles
green
like a silent vow
the breath of Kronos
moves the clock hands
so that nothing disappears without meaning
but only changes form in a sublime way
Somewhere inside me
a harmony plays
a choir of proud daffodils
in a circle of dawn
connected edges of cycles
that return
without asking
Do I belong here
on this creaking old chair
drawn by the magnet of love
in motion
as if I had always been
part of a dense
invisible sentence
an artist
with a pen
Something pulls me
to leave the wound that burns
but I cannot
I sit in a silence
that is not empty
but full
of the unspoken
the unbreathed
I am a mission of refraction
of human minds
through the thin membrane of chance
We have all met
I understand now
neither skin colour
nor culture
nor religion
are borders
but different languages
of the same breath
And as this understanding grows
a field of poppies
opens inside me
red
fragile
infinitely alive
Like me
alive as two lives
In the pauses of life
there is no emptiness
There is a wreath
sleeping time
cold marble
and the memory of stopped clock hands
© Sandra Fabac
Poetessa Humanist Ambassador
Croatia
