magazin

Magazin - Dani su bez broja

Lepa Brena

Boc, boc…

Miligram
Babaloo Noćni Klub
23.12.
Rez/Info +387 / 63 555 577

MILIGRAM  - Beograd noću

MAGAZIN-PUT PUTUJEM

Found the old shoebox under the eaves,  
Steph and me — muddy socks and fallen leaves.  
Me in boots two sizes wrong,  
Holding a spoon like it sang a song.  
And that photo — the one with the broom…  
I’d forgotten the fall, the daffodils in bloom.

We woke to a storm that whistled and sighed,  
Steph tucked me in with the thunder outside.  
She said, “Rain’s gone wild, best we match it in stride.”  
Jam on toast, with laughter spread wide.  
Down Pont-y-waun we splashed and spun,  
Daffodils blinking like bells in the sun.  
“The wind,” she whispered, “that’s the Awen, see?”  
I asked, “What’s it want?” — “It’s calling the three

We passed the stile near the hawthorn patch,  
And saw a girl mid-air — no latch.  
She floated wrong, then dipped and fell,  
Like a spell that forgot how to spell itself well.  
Her broom caught branches, snapped with flair,  
And down she came through the startled air.  
Steph flung her coat, arms open wide —  
“Not the first witch I’ve seen take a slide.”

Weathered variables, sky-spun cheer,  
Tea in our boots and spring drawing near.  
Cloaks in puddles, jam on chins,  
Three hearts beating where the breeze begins.  
You don’t wait quiet — you chant, you grin:  
“Come back, gwanwyn — come back in.”

“A pinch of breeze from morning’s sigh,  
A petal picked where foxgloves lie,  
A biscuit shared, a daisy crown,  
One sticker spoon turned upside down.”

“A giggle caught in teapot steam,  
Two muddy boots and one lost dream,  
A crumb of toast, a drop of rain —  
That’s all it takes to start again.”

“A candle stub, a rhyme half-said,  
A jam jar glowing cherry red…”

“And don’t forget the most vital part —  
A cup of tea, and a beating heart.”

At dusk we set out, jam jars aglow,  
Boots on the hill where cold winds blow.  
She read from the broom, her fingers sure:  
*“Call the spring with joy, not cure.”*  
Steph hummed low, I tapped in time,  
The wind leaned close — a kind of rhyme.  
The witch raised arms, her smile caught light —  
And spring stepped forward out of night.

Weathered variables, storm-born kin,  
Magic’s mess and lightning grin.  
Not all spells come robed and grand —  
Some are drawn with muddy hands.  
You don’t just wait — you dance, begin,  
And whisper, “gwanwyn — come back in.”

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