Same picture in the frame of the hotel window:
businessmen in a hurry, city drifters,
new green trees that you notice for the first time,
the scent of the river that wafts around the side street like smoke,
young women who wound you with their beauty.
Everything is the same with the mornings, only you are the absolute
stranger in your own language, who stares into the distance
where the jurodivi were to get ready their hellish gangs,
where your future death began to sound like a scream of a gypsy violin,
beside the silence and indifference of those
who used to call you a brother poet.
The Danube is here more tranquil than on Kagran
where you walked ten years upstream, horrified.
Now you walk towards the mouth of the river, only a little lost in thought
like a man from whom was surgically removed
the ability to wonder and enjoy
the world, which still lures him to sin.
The Danube, which separates the brotherly nations, Donau
In the antique shop you turn the leaves of an old book by
the Poet Crnjanski, a light illuminates your
A+ mark in Serbo-Croatian from long ago:
We have nothing, not a God, nor a master.
Our God is blood.