From the last bus stop I'd walk towards the woods, heading where the silence thickens. Behind the wire fence, the patients listened to their own endless monologues.
A pack of cigarettes would bring him more joy than I did. It was pointless to offer old photographs as witnesses. That wasn't us by the Sava River,
seeking shade, him explaining to me how to lure a perch to a metal question mark and how the dead part of the river flow is called starača.
Looking at his blue eyes it struck me, that wasn't him anymore.
After the visits I’d stand at the bus stop for a long time and wait to return home.
At times, I’d stare at the stave of the cables on the telephone poles, think about the voices travelling across the wasteland. Still, In the distance, they will reach someone.
From the poetry book "Paris, Texas" by Vladan Krečković (PPM Enklava, Belgrade, 2020). Translation by Kruna Petrić.
Series #8
When you collect each edition from all 10 series, contact the source user to get a printed copy of the book, signed by the author.
