Imagine the force that moves groundwater near a dowsing rod. Feel the magnetic needle between your eyebrows. Language is of no use anymore. You have to follow the syntax of the pupil, step inside yourself through a full stop. You ll see the outlines of other people’s lives, the night when they cut the telephone lines. There will be no flashlights in the hills.
Don't be afraid if you look like a wraith by the road, a nobody's co-driver. Wait for the dawn and feel the verbs evaporating off the lips. Listen, you'll hear a voice repeating: Frost wrote verses about snows and woods, trees are the parents of matches, there will be a fire at the edge of the Monastery Forest, horses vanishing in the depth of snowdrifts.
Downhill, downhill is the only direction, where in winter, the sad grasslands remain quiet and the stumps look like molars. There, they will force you to kneel down.
You'll find out who loved you when they put a gun to your temple. Say my name and watch the fear on their faces. Look closely, because they are your faces.
Quietly say to them Ramirez
From the poetry book "Paris, Texas" by Vladan Krečković (PPM Enklava, Belgrade, 2020). Translation by Kruna Petrić.
Series #5
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