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The Eyes of Keyholes
ISMET MUJEZINOVIĆ
The deeper our country sank, the faster your
pictures about us faded away. In vain were your
purest ideals and indisputable craftsmanship:
the red color of human blood and the white color
of the foam on overloaded horses’ mouths, so real
that they never quite dried up. As if something had
been missing in all those convulsions, all that history.
Since we buried you and started with the destruction,
your house in every city sank even faster, and your
compositions became mere oil on canvas. Some of
them were slaughtered with kitchen knives. Thus
your pictures about us have been completed.