The view from his window was a faded polaroid picture. A sfumato barcode pine-path-pine-path-fence.
Every day the Rorschach inkblots showed different prophecies, they oozed out of him like every truth, unwillingly and painfully, as the nurse wrote down strings of words resembling a poem, a different kind of gospel.
Only the woods remained calm, among the trees he no longer remembered the wrecked city, the telepathy of a sniper rifle, the nervousness of a tank caterpillar.
And the deeper into the shade he went the clearer his epistle was:
And on the third day Jesus rose and walked down Golgotha towards a procession of Romans, reloading an AK-47.
From the poetry book "Paris, Texas" by Vladan Krečković (PPM Enklava, Belgrade, 2020). Translation by Kruna Petrić.
Series #2
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