in sarajevo

april is truly the cruelest of months

where fantasy and horror mix in the retorts of bodies

spirits hang in the air, the spirits of literary schizophrenia

all you have to do is pick them, those sad fruits of the Universes,

why would you pay in your own blood?

at Bistrik and Kovači, the houses are surrounded with high walls

and human souls open like the domes of the Ottoman mosques,

the air is sharp like the Moon of the Dead

in the tavern stories, the war never ends

the divisions are placed among the beer bottles

while they talk of the Serbs, the Muslims and the Croats,

about the victims and the guilty ones

the “Truth”, ascertained a hundred times over, is measured on a microscopic scale,

cause epic narration is the fruit of red blood cells,

if Brazil is the country with the greatest number of football selectors in the world,

this is where most fake philosophers and misanthropes dwell

in spite of everything that destroys and deforms me,

i still participate in your paradoxical peacemaking

Sarajevo, you gave me nothing

but your poetry.

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