Down the Horizon

It’s a cold bus on a frosty dark grey morning murmuring about the past. It’s a division of frustrated drivers soaking you wet above the knees on the narrow pedestrian road. The same sidewalk is loaded with dog shit you dodge carefully by default.

It’s a spontaneous song enriched with Truba and Harmonika in the trolley bus. It’s a smile that your soul cannot hide. And you start dancing the rain away. It’s the gratitude of the guy you give some money from your pocket.

It’s the students from the ruined famous old park singing along with the guitar player. It’s the bar that changed its name many times with the scrupulous owners. It’s the spark in the eyes of your beloved friends.

It’s nostalgia. It’s the pain of the desecrating parks and falling facades of the buildings that made this city and created its culture. It’s the walls, people are building around themselves to protect them from going crazy.

It’s – whatever remained that makes it.

That makes it – Belgrade.