To have no clue of tomorrow.
To be unfamiliar with historic facts,
but, again, to know how many Montenegrins
died in the Balkans’ wars.
To quote a minor Latin-American poet.
To talk to a one-time criminal about deceptions.
And the history of art.
To score a goal in an irrelevant match
on the southern outskirt’s playground
To stay alone in the house
in the season of city fancy-dress balls.
To live in the provinces,
and thence experience the pain of the world.
To see the splendor of orthodox monasteries.
To unselfishly offer to others
Sources of personal pathos.
To have someone at your side.
All of that, and the aggregate of other essential
and unessential matters, probably is in no way whatever
enough for redemption.