Crno-bela fotografija

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The time of minor poets is coming. Good-by Whitman, Dickinson, Frost. Welcome you whose fame will never reach beyond your closest family, and perhaps one or two good friends gathered after dinner over a jug of fierce red wine . . . while the children are falling asleep and complaining about the noise you're making as you rummage through the closets for your old poems, afraid your wife might've thrown them out with last spring's cleaning.

It's snowing, says someone who has peeked into the dark night, and then he, too, turns towards you as you prepare yourself to read, in a manner somewhat theatrical and with a face turning red, the long rambling love poem whose final stanza (unknown to you) is hopelessly missing.

- After Aleksandar Ristović

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Dolazi vreme malih pesnika. Zbogom, Vitmene, Dikinsonova, Froste. Dobrodošli vi čija slava nikad neće doprijeti dalje od vaše najbliže rodbine, i možda jednog ili dvojice dobrih prijatelja okupljenih posle večere oko vrča jakog crnog vina . . . dok deca padaju u san i žale se zbog buke koju pravite preturajući po ormanima, tražeći svoje stare pesme, u strahu da ih je možda vaša žena izbacila prilikom poslednjeg prolećnog spremanja.

Pada sneg, kaže neko ko je zavirio u mrklu noć, a potom se i on okreće ka vama dok se vi pripremate da čitate, ponešto teatralno, s licem koje crveni, dugačku ljubavnu pesmu čija je poslednje strofa (vi to ne znate) beznadežno izgubljena.

- Po Aleksandru Ristoviću