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Marko Mozetic

Marko Mozetic

Nationality: Serbia
Email: markomozetic95@gmail.com


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:



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




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




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




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




lady Poetry

found herself today 

without her right hand


cut off

by time circular saw

where her tears left

two gold letters



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

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