Another bar poem

Not one of mine, this time. Something I just found on the Internet, from a favourite writer (obscure, Croatian).


The Beautiful God-Hater

A regular customer in a local bar
Waves his empty sleeve,
Fulminates from his undisciplined beard:
We've buried the gods
And now it's the turn of the dummies
Who are playing at gods.
The regular is hidden in tobacco clouds
Illuminated by his own words
Hewn from an oak trunk;
He is as beautiful as a god
Dug up recently nearby.

Vasco Popa (tr. from the Serbo-Croat by Anthony Weir)