Description
I know it was spring,
I remember the pollen was on guard,
memories crackled
in separate images.
The sound resembled a keyboard clicking.
Those nights,
noun cases bounced
like lotto balls and suddenly,
I realized, language was a program,
I wanted a moment of silence for
the unaccomplished vocatives,
the city to pause, people to stop,
trolley buses to halt
everything to finally get nowhere.
I existed only when comparing myself to others.
Brahman verses uttered in vain,
I unveiled the lie behind their chanting,
that isn't that, that isn't that, that isn't that,
and the city was, just like that, exactly that,
neon lights,
horses not yet set on fire in front of
the National Assembly,
no dynamite planted in
the foundations of corporate buildings,
bus station numbers
gliding across the screen.
Thinking of you meant waiting,
I saw the tired faces of strangers
on the night buses,
the city flashing in their pupils,
a time before verbs,
the mirror monotonously doing
one and the same thing, understand me,
it was too late, and nobody called for me,
nobody was there to say my name
so I’d finally stop and turn around.
_ _ _ _ _
From the poetry book "Paris, Texas" by Vladan Krečković (PPM Enklava, Belgrade, 2020). Translation by Kruna Petrić.
Series #7
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