* Photography by: Dejan Pankovic, "The gate of heaven"
The day we went out to visit my grandparents
it was not cold at all for one January afternoon.
The three of us rode the bicycles
while the clouds were gathering just above our heads.
My father and my brother spoke of some battle
that happened somewhere, where the sun never rises.
I observed the two solemn candles in my bicycle basket
along with all the lives I've lived.
My father was hurt and a bit ill,
the two of his children drove the bicycles next to him.
During Christmas holidays, we see more of each other.
There was the entrance,
a cobbled path and a shed where one family lives.
The glass tinkling in my basket where the two purple candles lie.
I can't remember the person I used to be the last time I spoke to them.
The whole graveyard is as dark as the weather,
a pure reflection of the nature.
We reach to the place where my grandparents lie,
no words come out from the sky
but a few drops of water that follow me everywhere.
I lit the two purple candles,
theirs was the only grave that had some light.
Words started to flow in my heart and my head.
When we turned around and went with one goodbye,
theirs was the only piece of soil that was whispering with the purple light.
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