Marko Mozetić was born in Šabac, Serbia. His first book Utočište was published when he was 20 years old. It contains short stories, poems and a short drama play.

Marko Mozetić is a 23 years old Bachelor of Science in Biomedical Engineering. Nowdays he is  exclusively writing poems. Except engineering and writing, he is passionate about cooking, swimming and long distance running. He lives in Novi Sad. E-mail:

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the most beautiful world libraries

I see in pictures

not knowing their stillness

 

my smoldering imagination

diffusing like a glaze

into dreaming awake

 

reverberating solitudes of librarians

obscuring stories

in yellow-stained envelopes of memories

 

dreamers inebriated by sentences

in a golden mist of

the infinity of the last round

 

while in one corner of

wrinkled and gray-haired shelves

a heart is drawn with a finger

 

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harkening attentively to one's senses

like a thief breaking a lock

 

conducting to oneself

detonating breakfast making

        

eating to Yann Tiersen's music 

but washing-up to Carl Orff

glorifying the routine

until its incognizance

 

and launching the morning

into restless rapids of daily life

 

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we talk briefly 

as if we were enclosed

in one above all bad haiku

but keeping a novel inside ourselves

 

I thought

how your laughter would

echo down the Hall of Mirrors

and your eyes

your eyes

would be seen 

wherever I turn

 

miraculous moment

intoxicating like a jasmine flower

prolonging its finality

but not for long

 

I'm going away

 

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to reach for a light year

in gnashing North Sea

which you could only see in a picture

 

to find the shelter

in the reflection of a light pole

in Amsterdam aquarelle

 

and to roam lastingly

the sharp flanks

of cerebral fjords

 

waiting for her

 

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lady Poetry

found herself today 

without her right hand

 

cut off

by time circular saw

where her tears left

two gold letters

L.C.

 

ancient background vocals

and Spanish guitars

are in a dark ocean

without a sail

without the wind

 

as well as numerous voyagers

of that old sailing ship

who take the oars of memories

and launching it again

 

lady Poetry

looking speechlessly at a black

Fedora hat

forgotten last night

beside her bed

 

waiting for the miracle to come

 

 

Translated by Zoran Protić