His Hometown
A town embraced by Еarth’s hips and bosom,
neatly laid between the curves and sways of trees,
colorful under the heavy clouds,
brighter soaked in rain…
A park. In it, a secret.
A fountain that doesn’t work at all.
But every day, at exactly 5:30 PM, a man comes.
He throws a coin, stands there for a minute.
Then fixes his hat and leaves.
The coin dances on the dry floor, last of the sunlight
Skips across. And fades.
Some simple communist communal buildings
spoil the glimmering show of colors,
but just around the corner… a bar.
Western style, wide-windowed and dyed
in blood-red, with gentle, yellow lights –
in a small town far away, in a tough, unjustly ruled Balkan
state, where the folk is lied to, and the West would fight again,
farther East is a would-be friend; with untrusting neighbors,
small protests and silent cries, mind-numbing reality TV and illiterate news,
loving mothers and sons, pretty daughters and fun, honest grandmoms,
deceased and brave fathers and granddads,
soiled in blood of forgiven wars… in a small country that never forgets,
lies a little piece of Earthly Love – the town of Chaeven, a river and mounts…
Photo is courtesy of Marija Mrvošević