| Diwan Special issue|

Aleksandar Bečanović

Born in 1971 in Nikšić (Montenegro), lives in Bar (Montenegro).


Don’t you know that the chronicles will categorise your letters as the past and silence. In caves, not recognised by shepherds, fires do not illuminate expressions. You sink into

history as into a dream. The light that comes from somewhere outside, falls apart in bare hands. Clock-hands and rains stop: the night is a chance shadow. Plotted on the face of the worker

a cramp of pain. On this island the striking of waves is never heard: only the rocks in time turn into sunken marble. Transparent, blue waters of the Mediterranean. They are

smooth eternity, the mirror and the reflection. Ancient statues look sternly before themselves.


You worry about every comma that tames your sentence. Words pile up like firewood in the shed. Warmth rises above trees that anticipate

their future form. In memory only separated moment remain. History with no one to repeat it. Melancholy is pre-mortal: everything you

love. In the lobby of the hotel nobody waits for you, because the twilight is too strong. In it rivers and lonely trees are lost. A leaf in the hand is like an unwritten rule.

Just one more sign and the inscription will be complete. And left to lie in darkness.

Translated by Ulvija Tanović


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