photo by Korana Šegetalo Delić
William,
where did the hippos end up?
Nothing
but pain until it bubbles.
I
try to picture it
then
give up.
I
don't dare go all the way.
Your
radio says it happened
in
some circus, in America.
Kerouac
claims:
it
was the London Zoo!
He
was mostly wasted
when
pressed for that answer.
Then
there are voices, mentioning India.
Voices
set some of us free,
condemned
others,
they
calmed Lucien.
He
loved you both,
until
the end, until his last breath,
when
all of you ceased to believe
in
each other
and
city lights continued to break over you,
when
suicide was a dream
just
like a new breakfast,
in
a new morning about to spill on me
in
a matter of seconds.
William,
you knew that, by his knife
and
your gun, apple on her head
let's
play the old rituals
in
the name of hard boiled love
and
the antics of courage and boredom.
I
made coffee,
more
bitter than dawns of adulthood
and
pooling wounds,
its
mug I later found empty
lost
to oblivion while I drank it.
William,
if there is no truth
and
everything is permitted,
what does that say about me?
Mehmed
Begić
translated
by: Korana Šegetalo Delić
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