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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 25 | volume V | March-April, 2002



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 25March-April, 2002
Prose

Austrian Heads

/16
p. 1
Ferid Muhić

    Captain Franciscus Trakl, the favorite of the 6th hill regiment, came to the mountain plateau first early in the morning of that day. The soldiers who followed him at the head of the stretched row of 162 men, at a distance of fifty steps, thought that their Franzi, that figure with broad and straight back, with a proud officer’s posture, sealed to the saddle of his muscled Kulash, sank into the light blue, over the dark edge of the mountain side, suddenly and irrevocably, just as those who will never come back disappear, just as the dream that we will never dream again ends.
      
    … … … … … … … … … ….
      
    When his horse stepped over the edge of the shadow that draw the purple darkness sharply to the very border of the steep uphill, just as the ocean indigo shapes the body of the island and separates it from the dark depths, captain Trakl suddenly dived into a blinding glow. He forgot about his regiment, about these four years of hard war. He pulled the reigns. The horse stopped. So synchronous with his movement that one could not say whether, just a split second before the horse had stopped itself petrified by the miracle that had opened in front of them.
    It was not a common plateau! An ocean of green waves bathed in the morning sun shone until the borders of the horizon. Similar to a sky island, this view of pure, shiny grass gently waved. And only a distant mountain slope, sprinkled with white rocks, or the twinkling of the kofil on the gentle slopes, made it different from an ocean experience, as the whitening of the foam of distant waves. When his eyes adjusted, captain Trakl noticed that thick galaxies of meadow flowers were sprinkled throughout that calm shiny desert – the leftover gold of the extinguished stars. Several blue mirrors, lakes, darker and bluer than the other surface glowed in the distance, reminding Trakl of the views that he had seen in the Kornati, at the Adriatic Sea, when the smooth spots on the calm sea shine under the gentle blows of the mistral, in the middle of the grayness of the wrinkled sea surface. He was a bit surprised by the knowledge that he was not bothered by the absence of any traces of people, civilization, history. And then that nice inner






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