Reminiscence. By Helena Santic Isakov, translated with Charles Elffers.

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. 

 

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