Someone is playing with a tiny thread of illusion,
while a hanging rope is waiting with the orchestra
where only silence is fighting against the natural
catastrophes which nobody can here.
I will write to you from Florence
about all the visits I have made,
as if it were the first trip;
how I was chatting with Hyperborean
passers-by in Latin,
Nikita S. was searching for his
dead sweethearts soul,
and poor Ezra P. came over,
to open a tiny tobacco shop,
while Rainer M. R. was walking
in a peasant like continental way
with his lyrical palms wide open.
I felt dissapointed by Friedrich H.,
who couldn’t find any reasonable
accommodation- imagine here in Florence.
We met Jani R. at the faculty of fine arts,
where he regaled us with his same old story
of being confined in Greece.
Danilo and I continued to walk a bit faster;
but because there was some shooting,
we returned via the road to San Marino
and the theater at its end,
just like in the old times,
when Friedrich Barbarossa came
with his cavalry, down the length
of Duke Michael street in Belgrade
to the great fortress at its end.