By Thomas Page

The Untranslatable

This is a series of poems of words that do not directly translate into English. I have tried to capture the essence of the word in a poem.

One of the first things I cooked was French toast.

The recipe was so simple:

Sourdough

Eggs

Vanilla

Cinnamon.

I had to cook something for the scouts.

We on a camping trip on sand and concrete

As the rising sun was at my neck

Like the orders wanting breakfast sooner

Too soon to allow eggs to transform.

The last slice leapt from pan to plate

I washed the pan preparing for the next meal of many

Trying to get better for its own sake.

Language: Serbian

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