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Quiet Flows the Una
Where would all my letters
go – love letters, as well as
more trivial ones?
Where would my numismatic
collection end up, including
the gold florin with the
countenance of Franz Josef
and a copper coin from
1676 with the word soldo
embossed on it, which was
perforated because someone
had worn it as a good-luck
charm around their neck?
Where would my room go?
Why would there be nothing
left in our flat but bare walls
and gaping holes where the
sockets and the toilet bowl
used to be?
Who would steal all my
photos, and on which of the
countless heaps of rubbish
would they shrivel in the sun
like autumn leaves?
Who would read my copy of
Zvonko Veljačić’s novel about
a space-travelling boy hero?
Who would take the Super
8 cinema projector and the
tapes in the great cardboard
boxes with film posters and
credits on the lids?
Where would the black and
white tape of War of the
Worlds go?
Who would make all the
things from our flat vanish