Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

The Eyes of Keyholes

KALEMEGDAN II

By the black-locust blossoms that in a shower from time to time spill down onto gutters and drainage grates, and hours later wash out without smell in the harbor, I discerned the line of human descent. Into the folds of tobacco that came to me I drew all the subterranean limbs and crosses, a complete bloodstream of darkness. Today, years distant from all travels, once in a while I climb down from the solitude of cabins and stone country to friends in the valley to get the letters and postcards I’d sent them from there, from Kalemegdan. Much has been patched up with red brick, a date here and there washed away with spilled coffee, but in the depth of things all lives are recorded and everyone’s time has been spent in advance. And day- and night walkers are striding across the negative.

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