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Faruk Šehić
of the kind there will be in
paradise, until the nightingale
proves with its song that it is
truly the heart of the tree.
The river is born again after
the rain, and within half an
hour the clay colour has gone
and the Una returns to its old
appearance. Plants that the
shower bent to the ground
straighten up and continue
their eternal watch. When the
sun, a god even stronger than
Bynt, begins to beat down,
the last traces of the rain
will vanish and the droplets
on the leaves will be spheres
where rainbow children live.
The first anglers’ caps have
already passed along the
street that faithfully follows
the river. Wooden windows
creak and people lean out to
breathe the town’s loveliest
smell – the aroma of the Una
after a summer shower.
‘She’s clear!’ they call out the
old river greeting, and the
extension rods protruding
from the anglers’ rucksacks
look like antennas.
I leave my Grandmother’s
house and go to sit on the
sandy bank. Sometimes I’d
like to be a boat of leaves
that, like most of the Balkan
rivers, ultimately joins the
Black Sea.
Although I’d never been in
the body of a slug, I thought
I could sense their sorrow as
I sat there on the bank of the
Unadžik and threw pebbles
into the green water. But as
soon as I caught sight of a
sizeable grayling, my heart
would begin to beat faster.
At first I would just watch it
for minutes, but then I would