Sunday, September 1, 2019




Sequence of images on the other side of the curtain,
In a semi-dark gloomy room,
Is nothing but a foggy trail of memory.
The past is still calling, sometimes. Maybe often…
We usually encounter in the absurd. The feeling is melancholic.
I tell her: I am the one you have kept from the past days.
Maybe I'm a little older, more experienced, worse...
When you leave the apartment, do not close the window.
I have to know,
when the curtain flutters in the wind that hides you,
That is nothing but the proof
That I am still here,
when the storm strikes.


From stars to make you a hat, to keep you safe.
No one to see you under it...
Out of clouds I’ll create a velvet,
to sew you a vest, when it blows and stings.
To embroider it with a silver thread.
Washed with the lake water.
And with fairy’s tears
hidden in the dark forest…

The song I'll use to sing you
a silver chain,
and the fields will make you a bed.
From dry plums a balm,
to put on your wet lips,
and from the root of the wild lily,
to collect water,
to soothe your thirsty soul.

I will splice me, from your hair,
like a cord threads of silk.
As in my vest
they once used to be.
I'll take your hand,
and take you to the past, far away.
To see all of them who are there,
So that you know there is still someone.


I do not believe in picturesque letters
on the parchment.
In counting, polling and marching.

I do not believe in mosaics and stained glass
or in various rainbows after the storm and rain.

I do not even believe in the songs of tired musicians,
in the waves on the docks
and in imaginary looks of melancholic cony-catchers.

I only believe in pore on stone,
centuries-old testimony
and forgiveness after cognition.


In a spiral of confusion
We're spinning
more and more losing ground.

Trapped between
birth and death
we bear
our thoughts well.

We bow down humbly
To night light
brighter than the sun.

We are afraid of
subconscious awakening
and foggy trails
of mind.


No reward, no throne.
Neither the place of honor
Neither made out of the gold, nor made out of thorns.
I do not need a crown...

Defiant to admire me but pitiful,
to follow me with fear.
To devour me lives full of hunger
Souls of unfortunate vagabonds. All different ones

There are a lot of half-empty barrels.
They stink like mold
And the wine turns darker,
like blood on a piece of cotton.

And when leaking starts in the water spout
The drops are racing one another.
And their feet give them away, badly.
Numb or dead below the waist.


IVAN SOKAČ (Bachelor of Economics), was born in 1975, in Belgrade, Serbia. Prose writer, poet and short lyrical prose writer.  Member of the Association of Writers of Serbia, represented in collections and anthologies. Numerous regional literary awards winner for his work, which is featured in seven publications of fiction from 2019. His works were translated into English, Russian, German and Slovenian.

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