My best friends.

My best friends are distant,

they are invisible.

They have disappeared.

Therefore, I am also gone.

A wall divides us.

I remove the curtains and find a flower blossoming from a stone.

The stone rolls on and creates another flower.

The flower is yellow,

color mixed by a shadow and a little bit of sun.

The sun shines upon a field of flowers.

I pick one of the flowers and give it to you,

like a hidden message of love.



In life

In life, you get used to everything, even to torture.

In combat, the soldiers who are ahead, serve as a guidance to those who are behind.

All men are equal, in primitive state.

Discrimination is the easiest way to organize a society.

People who love each other read the same books.

Some people don’t know how to love.

If I knew that I would dream about you for the rest of my life, I would never have left you.

Writing is a world on its own.

When somebody is telling you a story, never forget that discourse legitimates action.

Just like for every sunlight there is a shadow, for every ‘yes’ there is a ‘no’, the flip side of the coin.






People laugh at pain….the tango goes… stupid…..if we all go through the same.

There is no plot, discourse circulates.

I love to be discriminated. It means they don’t know me.


Aren’t we books?

We hold conversations,

We agree, we disagree,

We cry,

We emerge from suffering

We dance

We cook

We eat

We share a table

We look at the sky

We look at the mountains

We recall old stories

We create new ones

We plant a garden

We plant a rose

We close the door

We fall asleep

We dream

We discuss

We disagree

But no one uses the power of his words upon anybody

That’s authoritarianism!

The end of the book.

We look at the landscape

We keep walking

We drink some wine

We drink some whisky

We meditate about the history of wine and about the history of whisky

We close our eyes

We think

What’s next?

Another book, another story,

We hold the cross

We pray

We move

We pay

And we are out of this bar.

Loneliness awaits.


Suffering souls

Only poetry can touch certain souls

Suffering souls


They seek each other

They understand each other

And they provide an asylum

For people who don’t have an asylum.

Only the soul souls back and forth

In an endless conversation

Like a tunnel of love.


The roads in Serbia

The roads in Serbia are mysterious

The roads in Macedonia are mysterious

The more mysterious the road, the more careful the driver must be

The more mysterious the woman, the more careful the lover must be



The song of our soul

Let there not be any more judge than the voice of your conscience

Let there not be any more guidance than the beating of your heart

Let there not be any more voices than the song of your soul

Let there not be any more clock than the time marked by your loved ones

Let there not be any more buildings than the ones built with love

Let there not be any more dance than the dance of our land

Let there not be any more stars than the shine of your eyes