leaning over the sluggish river, familiar with the legends of the triad of mountains, bridges and linden trees, practiced in the exploration of that tender lament, eyes fixed on the riverbed, are you searching
for your slovenian face, for the one true story. meanwhile, the water sinks underground, changes names, directions, shores, heavily burdened
with lances, brooches, and axes. the nightmare of earlier massacres clings hopelessly to the river’s trench. shattered and bereft of custom, vows and pleas drift downstream. searching for yourself, you catch sight of the other, warped and blurred, floating upwards.