They say that the Miljacka river does exist,
but I can only sense it in the distance.
You, on the other hand, flowing
through the night so swiftly, are real.
Your hair is black, your scarf invisible,
your hand firmly held by someone.
You’re giving me that long piercing look
knowing there’s so much that needs to be remembered.
In this city we are equally distant
from each other; halfway between Persia and Europe;
equally distant from all living and all dead.
I wish I could gently put out cigarettes on your arms.
I wish you would act the part of Satan for me
on the stage of some abandoned cultural centre.
Thus we would get rid of one life line,
one destiny, one string of love…
so that only those lines on my palms would remain.
How many cemeteries are there in Sarajevo?
How many in the entire world?
Does anyone ask himself.
Nobody asks that. Everybody steals the truth.
So, I’m begging you, miraždžika,
to please cut off my hands
with that last atom of strength.