Marko Mozetić was born in Šabac, Serbia. His first book UtoÄište 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, swimmin ...
Marko Mozetić was born in Šabac, Serbia. His first book UtoÄište 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:
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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
L.C.
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
English 
Spanish
