The bohemians say that they disappeared because there are no more songs for Belgrade ladies. Maybe there is a bohemian, but no lady has yet awakened some words for songs in them. Empty napkins without verses, empty glasses without pain, just one drink and then back to the car is what the waiters from Skadarlija see now.
There are supposedly no new stories, and the old ones are repeated in the hope that they will inspire new ones.
The Belgrade bohemian wrote a new one:
You walk through the cobblestones of Skadarlija every day, you don’t even look at my table. When I wanted to say something, you already disappeared among the thousands of flowers that covered the walls of old houses.
You passed again, and she asked you if you had just embroidered. You look at me strangely. You hide your gaze under your hat and continue walking the frame and you get lost again among thousands of flowers.
I waited for you the next day, and when you passed, I showed you with my hands if you were bound. You smile slightly and move on again.
After the third day, you approached my table and asked me what it meant to me, did you tie it? I offered you to sit down, which you kindly accepted.
“You ask me why I ask you if you are bound?” I write songs in which I hide your name but reveal your beauty. I write songs in which you don’t walk alone on the cobblestones, but I cover your hand with mine.
I’m writing a song in which you will no longer be a secret that I jealously guard,
I write that it is a secret how much space there is for me in your heart.
I ask if you knit but not embroider from the thread woven. I ask if you tie my heart to yours where there are not two but one who will dream the same dreams, and only hide in one thought.
Author: Belgrade bohemian