Winter things

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Magic tree

 

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Shared view I

 

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Two birds, guy and a tree

 

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Three guys, one winner

 

 

The Magic Study of Happiness

In the smallest theater in the world the bread crumbs speak. It’s a mystery play on the lost subject of paradise. Once there was a kitchen with a table on which a few crumbs were left. Through the window you could see your young mother by the fence talking to a neighbor. She was cold and kept hugging her thin dress tighter and tighter. The clouds in the sky sailed on as she threw her head back to laugh.
Where the words can’t go any further—there’s the hard table. The crumbs are watching you as you watch them. The unknown in you and the unknown in them attract each other. The two unknowns are like illicit lovers when there’re exceedingly and unaccountably happy.

Charles Simic

 

 

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Fog and Mist

 

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Artsy girl

 

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Chess time

 

Stone
Go inside a stone
That would be my way.
Let somebody else become a dove
Or gnash with a tiger’s tooth.
I am happy to be a stone.
Charles Simic

 

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New Years decorations

 

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New Years decorations, detail

 

Hide-And-Seek

Someone hides from someone else
Hides under his tongue
The other looks for him under the earth

He hides on his forehead
The other looks for him in the sky

He hides inside his forgetfulness
The other looks for him in the grass

Looks for him looks
There’s no place he doesn’t look
And looking he loses himself

Vasko Popa

 

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Shared view II

 

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Central station

 

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Toys

 

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Boundary

 

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Crumb family

 

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Smartheads

 

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Competitors

 

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Millennium tower

 

The Small Box

Now in the small box
Is the whole world quite tiny
You can easily put it in a pocket
Easily steal it easily lose it

Take care of the small box

Vasko Popa

 

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Density

 

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Pressed flowers

 

The Spaces of Hope

I have experienced the spaces of hope,
The spaces of a moderate mercy. Experienced
The places which suddenly set
Into a random form: a lilac garden,
A street in Florence, a morning room,
A sea smeared with silver before the storm,
Or a starless night lit only
By a book on the table. The spaces of hope
Are in time, not linked into
A system of miracles, nor into a unity;
They merely exist. As in Kanfanar,
At the station; wind in a wild vine
A quarter-century ago: one space of hope.
Another, set somewhere in the future,
Is already destroying the void around it,
Unclear but real. Probable.

In the spaces of hope light grows,
Free of charge, and voices are clearer,
Death has a beautiful shadow, the lilac blooms later,
But for that it looks like its first-ever flower.

Ivan V. Lalic

 

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