From the section TRANSLATIONS

Oftentimes i love to be the last guest

(my friends know that)

At a club where Bocce is played

or similar venues

which are slowly dying away.

Those times when everything is being tide up silently

and when it’s yawned until the next insomnia.

That’s when i recognize the most the autumn that arrived too early.

In myself and in the blue waters of Adriatic sea.

At the cities which i visit, while never adapting

to the changes of times that occur ever more often:

they are all foreign.

City of Tivat: letters’ layout is aligned

The name which rings in the voices of beuatiful local women.

The music of full lips: Tivat.

When these loud people wearing unusual colorful clothes leave

when this circus is gone,

then everything smelss of melancholy,

of some tomorrow’s rain.

 

I already see worn out cards and thrown around bottles of half litre,

expecting something which won’t be even noticed when it comes.

That’s life, summer,

those are someone’s scattered days…

There is still enough time foor one more drink.

Tired owner will one more time carefully water the terrain.

 

That messanger of nothingness.

Those nice gestures of unavoidable separation.

Tivat, the word as powerful as an arriving ship.

Tender at the same time, like a flower of which foreigners do not know.

I love it that this poem is leaving.

To the purple air above the city

to which for some reason i am going.

To nowhere — which is so mine.

Like that never,

ours never.

 

The last guests are always the most honest ones,

that man told me,

his routine not reaching the next guest, who has not had arrived yet,

reaching instead the next month i guess.

The nobility of the guest who is yet to come can only be imagined.

What is his’ life like,

until the point of the uncurable nostalgia.

Until Tivat, until our lost salt.

And when these loud people leave,

let’s remember Tivat,

that place that doesn’t force itself on anyone,

Tivat, like words in which even waves dance secretly.

Sea and love.

A lasting, beautiful expectation.

 

(2) Bocce (/boʊtʃi/), sometimes anglicized as bocci, is a ball sport belonging to the boules family, closely related to British bowls and French pétanque, with a common ancestry from ancient games played in the Roman Empire; L. R. S.

Oftentimes i love to be the last guest

(my friends know that)

At a club where Bocce is played

or similar venues

which are slowly dying away.

Those times when everything is being tide up silently

and when it’s yawned until the next insomnia.

That’s when i recognize the most the autumn that arrived too early.

In myself and in the blue waters of Adriatic sea.

At the cities which i visit, while never adapting

to the changes of times that occur ever more often:

they are all foreign.

City of Tivat: letters’ layout is aligned

The name which rings in the voices of beuatiful local women.

The music of full lips: Tivat.

When these loud people wearing unusual colorful clothes leave

when this circus is gone,

then everything smelss of melancholy,

of some tomorrow’s rain.

 

I already see worn out cards and thrown around bottles of half litre,

expecting something which won’t be even noticed when it comes.

That’s life, summer,

those are someone’s scattered days…

There is still enough time foor one more drink.

Tired owner will one more time carefully water the terrain.

 

That messanger of nothingness.

Those nice gestures of unavoidable separation.

Tivat, the word as powerful as an arriving ship.

Tender at the same time, like a flower of which foreigners do not know.

I love it that this poem is leaving.

To the purple air above the city

to which for some reason i am going.

To nowhere — which is so mine.

Like that never,

ours never.

 

The last guests are always the most honest ones,

that man told me,

his routine not reaching the next guest, who has not had arrived yet,

reaching instead the next month i guess.

The nobility of the guest who is yet to come can only be imagined.

What is his’ life like,

until the point of the uncurable nostalgia.

Until Tivat, until our lost salt.

And when these loud people leave,

let’s remember Tivat,

that place that doesn’t force itself on anyone,

Tivat, like words in which even waves dance secretly.

Sea and love.

A lasting, beautiful expectation.

 

(2) Bocce (/boʊtʃi/), sometimes anglicized as bocci, is a ball sport belonging to the boules family, closely related to British bowls and French pétanque, with a common ancestry from ancient games played in the Roman Empire; L. R. S.

Oftentimes i love to be the last guest

(my friends know that)

At a club where Bocce is played

or similar venues

which are slowly dying away.

Those times when everything is being tide up silently

and when it’s yawned until the next insomnia.

That’s when i recognize the most the autumn that arrived too early.

In myself and in the blue waters of Adriatic sea.

At the cities which i visit, while never adapting

to the changes of times that occur ever more often:

they are all foreign.

City of Tivat: letters’ layout is aligned

The name which rings in the voices of beuatiful local women.

The music of full lips: Tivat.

When these loud people wearing unusual colorful clothes leave

when this circus is gone,

then everything smelss of melancholy,

of some tomorrow’s rain.

 

I already see worn out cards and thrown around bottles of half litre,

expecting something which won’t be even noticed when it comes.

That’s life, summer,

those are someone’s scattered days…

There is still enough time foor one more drink.

Tired owner will one more time carefully water the terrain.

 

That messanger of nothingness.

Those nice gestures of unavoidable separation.

Tivat, the word as powerful as an arriving ship.

Tender at the same time, like a flower of which foreigners do not know.

I love it that this poem is leaving.

To the purple air above the city

to which for some reason i am going.

To nowhere — which is so mine.

Like that never,

ours never.

 

The last guests are always the most honest ones,

that man told me,

his routine not reaching the next guest, who has not had arrived yet,

reaching instead the next month i guess.

The nobility of the guest who is yet to come can only be imagined.

What is his’ life like,

until the point of the uncurable nostalgia.

Until Tivat, until our lost salt.

And when these loud people leave,

let’s remember Tivat,

that place that doesn’t force itself on anyone,

Tivat, like words in which even waves dance secretly.

Sea and love.

A lasting, beautiful expectation.

 

(2) Bocce (/boʊtʃi/), sometimes anglicized as bocci, is a ball sport belonging to the boules family, closely related to British bowls and French pétanque, with a common ancestry from ancient games played in the Roman Empire; L. R. S.

Oftentimes i love to be the last guest

(my friends know that)

At a club where Bocce is played

or similar venues

which are slowly dying away.

Those times when everything is being tide up silently

and when it’s yawned until the next insomnia.

That’s when i recognize the most the autumn that arrived too early.

In myself and in the blue waters of Adriatic sea.

At the cities which i visit, while never adapting

to the changes of times that occur ever more often:

they are all foreign.

City of Tivat: letters’ layout is aligned

The name which rings in the voices of beuatiful local women.

The music of full lips: Tivat.

When these loud people wearing unusual colorful clothes leave

when this circus is gone,

then everything smelss of melancholy,

of some tomorrow’s rain.

 

I already see worn out cards and thrown around bottles of half litre,

expecting something which won’t be even noticed when it comes.

That’s life, summer,

those are someone’s scattered days…

There is still enough time foor one more drink.

Tired owner will one more time carefully water the terrain.

 

That messanger of nothingness.

Those nice gestures of unavoidable separation.

Tivat, the word as powerful as an arriving ship.

Tender at the same time, like a flower of which foreigners do not know.

I love it that this poem is leaving.

To the purple air above the city

to which for some reason i am going.

To nowhere — which is so mine.

Like that never,

ours never.

 

The last guests are always the most honest ones,

that man told me,

his routine not reaching the next guest, who has not had arrived yet,

reaching instead the next month i guess.

The nobility of the guest who is yet to come can only be imagined.

What is his’ life like,

until the point of the uncurable nostalgia.

Until Tivat, until our lost salt.

And when these loud people leave,

let’s remember Tivat,

that place that doesn’t force itself on anyone,

Tivat, like words in which even waves dance secretly.

Sea and love.

A lasting, beautiful expectation.

 

(2) Bocce (/boʊtʃi/), sometimes anglicized as bocci, is a ball sport belonging to the boules family, closely related to British bowls and French pétanque, with a common ancestry from ancient games played in the Roman Empire; L. R. S.

Oftentimes i love to be the last guest

(my friends know that)

At a club where Bocce is played

or similar venues

which are slowly dying away.

Those times when everything is being tide up silently

and when it’s yawned until the next insomnia.

That’s when i recognize the most the autumn that arrived too early.

In myself and in the blue waters of Adriatic sea.

At the cities which i visit, while never adapting

to the changes of times that occur ever more often:

they are all foreign.

City of Tivat: letters’ layout is aligned

The name which rings in the voices of beuatiful local women.

The music of full lips: Tivat.

When these loud people wearing unusual colorful clothes leave

when this circus is gone,

then everything smelss of melancholy,

of some tomorrow’s rain.

 

I already see worn out cards and thrown around bottles of half litre,

expecting something which won’t be even noticed when it comes.

That’s life, summer,

those are someone’s scattered days…

There is still enough time foor one more drink.

Tired owner will one more time carefully water the terrain.

 

That messanger of nothingness.

Those nice gestures of unavoidable separation.

Tivat, the word as powerful as an arriving ship.

Tender at the same time, like a flower of which foreigners do not know.

I love it that this poem is leaving.

To the purple air above the city

to which for some reason i am going.

To nowhere — which is so mine.

Like that never,

ours never.

 

The last guests are always the most honest ones,

that man told me,

his routine not reaching the next guest, who has not had arrived yet,

reaching instead the next month i guess.

The nobility of the guest who is yet to come can only be imagined.

What is his’ life like,

until the point of the uncurable nostalgia.

Until Tivat, until our lost salt.

And when these loud people leave,

let’s remember Tivat,

that place that doesn’t force itself on anyone,

Tivat, like words in which even waves dance secretly.

Sea and love.

A lasting, beautiful expectation.

 

(2) Bocce (/boʊtʃi/), sometimes anglicized as bocci, is a ball sport belonging to the boules family, closely related to British bowls and French pétanque, with a common ancestry from ancient games played in the Roman Empire; L. R. S.

Oftentimes i love to be the last guest

(my friends know that)

At a club where Bocce is played

or similar venues

which are slowly dying away.

Those times when everything is being tide up silently

and when it’s yawned until the next insomnia.

That’s when i recognize the most the autumn that arrived too early.

In myself and in the blue waters of Adriatic sea.

At the cities which i visit, while never adapting

to the changes of times that occur ever more often:

they are all foreign.

City of Tivat: letters’ layout is aligned

The name which rings in the voices of beuatiful local women.

The music of full lips: Tivat.

When these loud people wearing unusual colorful clothes leave

when this circus is gone,

then everything smelss of melancholy,

of some tomorrow’s rain.

 

I already see worn out cards and thrown around bottles of half litre,

expecting something which won’t be even noticed when it comes.

That’s life, summer,

those are someone’s scattered days…

There is still enough time foor one more drink.

Tired owner will one more time carefully water the terrain.

 

That messanger of nothingness.

Those nice gestures of unavoidable separation.

Tivat, the word as powerful as an arriving ship.

Tender at the same time, like a flower of which foreigners do not know.

I love it that this poem is leaving.

To the purple air above the city

to which for some reason i am going.

To nowhere — which is so mine.

Like that never,

ours never.

 

The last guests are always the most honest ones,

that man told me,

his routine not reaching the next guest, who has not had arrived yet,

reaching instead the next month i guess.

The nobility of the guest who is yet to come can only be imagined.

What is his’ life like,

until the point of the uncurable nostalgia.

Until Tivat, until our lost salt.

And when these loud people leave,

let’s remember Tivat,

that place that doesn’t force itself on anyone,

Tivat, like words in which even waves dance secretly.

Sea and love.

A lasting, beautiful expectation.

 

(2) Bocce (/boʊtʃi/), sometimes anglicized as bocci, is a ball sport belonging to the boules family, closely related to British bowls and French pétanque, with a common ancestry from ancient games played in the Roman Empire; L. R. S.

Oftentimes i love to be the last guest

(my friends know that)

At a club where Bocce is played

or similar venues

which are slowly dying away.

Those times when everything is being tide up silently

and when it’s yawned until the next insomnia.

That’s when i recognize the most the autumn that arrived too early.

In myself and in the blue waters of Adriatic sea.

At the cities which i visit, while never adapting

to the changes of times that occur ever more often:

they are all foreign.

City of Tivat: letters’ layout is aligned

The name which rings in the voices of beuatiful local women.

The music of full lips: Tivat.

When these loud people wearing unusual colorful clothes leave

when this circus is gone,

then everything smelss of melancholy,

of some tomorrow’s rain.

 

I already see worn out cards and thrown around bottles of half litre,

expecting something which won’t be even noticed when it comes.

That’s life, summer,

those are someone’s scattered days…

There is still enough time foor one more drink.

Tired owner will one more time carefully water the terrain.

 

That messanger of nothingness.

Those nice gestures of unavoidable separation.

Tivat, the word as powerful as an arriving ship.

Tender at the same time, like a flower of which foreigners do not know.

I love it that this poem is leaving.

To the purple air above the city

to which for some reason i am going.

To nowhere — which is so mine.

Like that never,

ours never.

 

The last guests are always the most honest ones,

that man told me,

his routine not reaching the next guest, who has not had arrived yet,

reaching instead the next month i guess.

The nobility of the guest who is yet to come can only be imagined.

What is his’ life like,

until the point of the uncurable nostalgia.

Until Tivat, until our lost salt.

And when these loud people leave,

let’s remember Tivat,

that place that doesn’t force itself on anyone,

Tivat, like words in which even waves dance secretly.

Sea and love.

A lasting, beautiful expectation.

 

(2) Bocce (/boʊtʃi/), sometimes anglicized as bocci, is a ball sport belonging to the boules family, closely related to British bowls and French pétanque, with a common ancestry from ancient games played in the Roman Empire; L. R. S.

Oftentimes i love to be the last guest

(my friends know that)

At a club where Bocce is played

or similar venues

which are slowly dying away.

Those times when everything is being tide up silently

and when it’s yawned until the next insomnia.

That’s when i recognize the most the autumn that arrived too early.

In myself and in the blue waters of Adriatic sea.

At the cities which i visit, while never adapting

to the changes of times that occur ever more often:

they are all foreign.

City of Tivat: letters’ layout is aligned

The name which rings in the voices of beuatiful local women.

The music of full lips: Tivat.

When these loud people wearing unusual colorful clothes leave

when this circus is gone,

then everything smelss of melancholy,

of some tomorrow’s rain.

 

I already see worn out cards and thrown around bottles of half litre,

expecting something which won’t be even noticed when it comes.

That’s life, summer,

those are someone’s scattered days…

There is still enough time foor one more drink.

Tired owner will one more time carefully water the terrain.

 

That messanger of nothingness.

Those nice gestures of unavoidable separation.

Tivat, the word as powerful as an arriving ship.

Tender at the same time, like a flower of which foreigners do not know.

I love it that this poem is leaving.

To the purple air above the city

to which for some reason i am going.

To nowhere — which is so mine.

Like that never,

ours never.

 

The last guests are always the most honest ones,

that man told me,

his routine not reaching the next guest, who has not had arrived yet,

reaching instead the next month i guess.

The nobility of the guest who is yet to come can only be imagined.

What is his’ life like,

until the point of the uncurable nostalgia.

Until Tivat, until our lost salt.

And when these loud people leave,

let’s remember Tivat,

that place that doesn’t force itself on anyone,

Tivat, like words in which even waves dance secretly.

Sea and love.

A lasting, beautiful expectation.

 

(2) Bocce (/boʊtʃi/), sometimes anglicized as bocci, is a ball sport belonging to the boules family, closely related to British bowls and French pétanque, with a common ancestry from ancient games played in the Roman Empire; L. R. S.

Oftentimes i love to be the last guest

(my friends know that)

At a club where Bocce is played

or similar venues

which are slowly dying away.

Those times when everything is being tide up silently

and when it’s yawned until the next insomnia.

That’s when i recognize the most the autumn that arrived too early.

In myself and in the blue waters of Adriatic sea.

At the cities which i visit, while never adapting

to the changes of times that occur ever more often:

they are all foreign.

City of Tivat: letters’ layout is aligned

The name which rings in the voices of beuatiful local women.

The music of full lips: Tivat.

When these loud people wearing unusual colorful clothes leave

when this circus is gone,

then everything smelss of melancholy,

of some tomorrow’s rain.

 

I already see worn out cards and thrown around bottles of half litre,

expecting something which won’t be even noticed when it comes.

That’s life, summer,

those are someone’s scattered days…

There is still enough time foor one more drink.

Tired owner will one more time carefully water the terrain.

 

That messanger of nothingness.

Those nice gestures of unavoidable separation.

Tivat, the word as powerful as an arriving ship.

Tender at the same time, like a flower of which foreigners do not know.

I love it that this poem is leaving.

To the purple air above the city

to which for some reason i am going.

To nowhere — which is so mine.

Like that never,

ours never.

 

The last guests are always the most honest ones,

that man told me,

his routine not reaching the next guest, who has not had arrived yet,

reaching instead the next month i guess.

The nobility of the guest who is yet to come can only be imagined.

What is his’ life like,

until the point of the uncurable nostalgia.

Until Tivat, until our lost salt.

And when these loud people leave,

let’s remember Tivat,

that place that doesn’t force itself on anyone,

Tivat, like words in which even waves dance secretly.

Sea and love.

A lasting, beautiful expectation.

 

(2) Bocce (/boʊtʃi/), sometimes anglicized as bocci, is a ball sport belonging to the boules family, closely related to British bowls and French pétanque, with a common ancestry from ancient games played in the Roman Empire; L. R. S.

Oftentimes i love to be the last guest

(my friends know that)

At a club where Bocce is played

or similar venues

which are slowly dying away.

Those times when everything is being tide up silently

and when it’s yawned until the next insomnia.

That’s when i recognize the most the autumn that arrived too early.

In myself and in the blue waters of Adriatic sea.

At the cities which i visit, while never adapting

to the changes of times that occur ever more often:

they are all foreign.

City of Tivat: letters’ layout is aligned

The name which rings in the voices of beuatiful local women.

The music of full lips: Tivat.

When these loud people wearing unusual colorful clothes leave

when this circus is gone,

then everything smelss of melancholy,

of some tomorrow’s rain.

 

I already see worn out cards and thrown around bottles of half litre,

expecting something which won’t be even noticed when it comes.

That’s life, summer,

those are someone’s scattered days…

There is still enough time foor one more drink.

Tired owner will one more time carefully water the terrain.

 

That messanger of nothingness.

Those nice gestures of unavoidable separation.

Tivat, the word as powerful as an arriving ship.

Tender at the same time, like a flower of which foreigners do not know.

I love it that this poem is leaving.

To the purple air above the city

to which for some reason i am going.

To nowhere — which is so mine.

Like that never,

ours never.

 

The last guests are always the most honest ones,

that man told me,

his routine not reaching the next guest, who has not had arrived yet,

reaching instead the next month i guess.

The nobility of the guest who is yet to come can only be imagined.

What is his’ life like,

until the point of the uncurable nostalgia.

Until Tivat, until our lost salt.

And when these loud people leave,

let’s remember Tivat,

that place that doesn’t force itself on anyone,

Tivat, like words in which even waves dance secretly.

Sea and love.

A lasting, beautiful expectation.

 

(2) Bocce (/boʊtʃi/), sometimes anglicized as bocci, is a ball sport belonging to the boules family, closely related to British bowls and French pétanque, with a common ancestry from ancient games played in the Roman Empire; L. R. S.

Oftentimes i love to be the last guest

(my friends know that)

At a club where Bocce is played

or similar venues

which are slowly dying away.

Those times when everything is being tide up silently

and when it’s yawned until the next insomnia.

That’s when i recognize the most the autumn that arrived too early.

In myself and in the blue waters of Adriatic sea.

At the cities which i visit, while never adapting

to the changes of times that occur ever more often:

they are all foreign.

City of Tivat: letters’ layout is aligned

The name which rings in the voices of beuatiful local women.

The music of full lips: Tivat.

When these loud people wearing unusual colorful clothes leave

when this circus is gone,

then everything smelss of melancholy,

of some tomorrow’s rain.

 

I already see worn out cards and thrown around bottles of half litre,

expecting something which won’t be even noticed when it comes.

That’s life, summer,

those are someone’s scattered days…

There is still enough time foor one more drink.

Tired owner will one more time carefully water the terrain.

 

That messanger of nothingness.

Those nice gestures of unavoidable separation.

Tivat, the word as powerful as an arriving ship.

Tender at the same time, like a flower of which foreigners do not know.

I love it that this poem is leaving.

To the purple air above the city

to which for some reason i am going.

To nowhere — which is so mine.

Like that never,

ours never.

 

The last guests are always the most honest ones,

that man told me,

his routine not reaching the next guest, who has not had arrived yet,

reaching instead the next month i guess.

The nobility of the guest who is yet to come can only be imagined.

What is his’ life like,

until the point of the uncurable nostalgia.

Until Tivat, until our lost salt.

And when these loud people leave,

let’s remember Tivat,

that place that doesn’t force itself on anyone,

Tivat, like words in which even waves dance secretly.

Sea and love.

A lasting, beautiful expectation.

 

(2) Bocce (/boʊtʃi/), sometimes anglicized as bocci, is a ball sport belonging to the boules family, closely related to British bowls and French pétanque, with a common ancestry from ancient games played in the Roman Empire; L. R. S.