We need to keep still in the boat to let the countryside flow past us. Down the cables on the patched roofs connections are seeping from one village to another,
a dog is following us along the river bank. The moment I look at it, it disappears behind a bulrush, a border of comfort.
Fences, walls, windows, religious icons – everything framing the scenery, is a collage of waste. The parable of a rusty satellite dish from which the cows drink rainwater,
eagles nesting in discarded tractor tires, a public hanging of fish in the village square. Children gazing longingly through broken windshields, they’re the only ones wild horses would follow.
The same night before falling asleep, it came to me: here, drowning doesn't mean death, and then I dreamt of
a hug, power lines, myself.
The next day, on the cover of my diary, the guide Matej drew the Scorpio constellation above Sulina, an open eye of a lighthouse, and Δ.
From the poetry book "Paris, Texas" by Vladan Krečković (PPM Enklava, Belgrade, 2020). Translation by Kruna Petrić.
Series #4
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