Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Milorad Pejić

STOCKHOLM

You are alone, man, in this crowd, on this concrete. Wherever you go, digital clocks are darting out with their snakes’ tongues. On lazy staircases, eyeglasses are clashing in the intensity of kisses. Do you still believe in so much love - where is the soul of the city? I love a storm. It brings agitation even to the parking police, it scatters lottery tickets like pigeons. I delight in a cloudburst when the scent of pines overpowers sweat and perfumes, driving away from the squares even the most fervents of walkers. So I amble into the back alleys, where the soul of the city abides, where the greyhaired dwarf, through the hole in the glass of the hot-dog stand, explains squid with fresh olives to a rainsoaked prostitute, an old recipe from his native land, from frightening Sicily.

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