There is a place that appeals to me the most. It changes its faces every time a wind blows. It can be cruel, it can be calming, powerful, shining, exciting, stunning... hot as hell and sunny, but it can rain for days and then an atmosphere grows mouldy. It is a place where no one wins, neither the sea nor the high mountains.
Venetians were there, Napoleon’s troops, Russians, Turks, South Slavs... different regimes in different times.
The great poet lived there and now lies at a peak he did not pick. He, as a scenery, had a lot of profiles. Fragile and pitiless, lonesome and occupied. On the mountain that shelters the bay, he learned that life is fragile. And so did his landsmen who were less remembered, but equally vigor.
Even though there was a bishop, he erected cathedral none. Since it is impossible not to see a mighty god scattered over every glimpse, each rock and look, on these high mountains that cover the bay.
To live there, were rocks are sucking out the water and hide it deep from its surface, where every step might ache, where goats and cows are still valued as wealth, demands strength and humbleness. Nevertheless, poet’s countrymen considered impunity to be a necessity. Ambition to survive was spelled in their genes. They knew how to be ordinary, gentle and polite, but at the same time they had clutches of thoughts, in good accordance with their poetic way of speech.
Undeterred by uncertainty of hard life, there always was softness and patience. There always was awareness of communion and common good. Assistance and love, brought to these small group of people by the very mighty god that hides in each karst and stone.
And love. Love that was passed on to children and children’s children, and their children too. Love that was gave to me. With all other values. Of course there are silent fears that cause stomach pain too, probably created on that unfriendly rocky soil. Without love though, there would be no beauty and no laughter. No understanding, no cuddling, no sincere affections. No listening and no endurance. There would be no families that stick together even when those family members live spread out the continent. There would be no Sunday lunches at my grandparent’s place, cheerful summers with my brother and cousins, there would be no bond that connects me and this hostile sensational place that I admire and adore. I feel gratefulness and love that I have to pass on, and on and on, until it reaches stars that ones the poet knew how to talk to. Maybe even from the peak he did not pick.
– Milica Tanasijevic