Translated from Bosnian by Elizabeta Bakovska
The birds take off in time again today,
but I have nothing to learn,
for I too was taught not to think
you are here just as long as I need
Until the next love. Until the next death.
You say: the birds do not fly long today, but they take off in time.
And I no longer ask, anything.
Back then, the Golden Horn looked like an ideal place for Moses’s path
through the sea. And yet I departed, on the opposite side
again, seeing for yet another time that being loved is
but a different name for an addiction.