LETTER TO BENJAMIN K.
 
"While Tito was alive we all had it better." - 
we giggled saying what we could not witness. 
We, children of the nineties, with the burden they pointed at us, 
we would put it down together with our backpacks in front of the cafe "Tito", then continued... 
The alley seemed endless, acacias in bloom, everything smelled. 
Bee humming added difficulty to the smell... 
He said we would pick the flower at night when the bees go to sleep, 
that acacia veins reach deep and spread wide, 
that even when generations change, 
these trees will remember at least parts of our faces and voices... 
Then he walked for a long time, he touched the rough bark of the trees, 
he looked through the treetops at the sky and remained silent. 
And he was silent. 
Then we would go back, 
sat opposite each other for a long time, 
and the silences grew over the hills and pines. 
His coffee was black as night. Not even a drop of my white coffee can dilute it. 
The tanks around us were warning us with an eerie park silence.
 I used to be quiet too. 
And he would already get up, drink the last sip while standing, 
take the load with his hands, put it back on his back and leave. 
And he left. 
I'm writing a letter that I won't send. 
Address known. 
The recipient's language has changed. 
The noun "pain" is not of the same genus anymore. 
I'm walking in the park, 
trees are the curators in this Museum of Remembrance, 
by moving the branches 
pictures come pouring in, 
wistful scents dance. 
If nothing, 
it seems to me at least 
that
I understand better the language of sadness 
on the faces
of passers - by.



Azemina Krehić was born on October 14, 1992 in Metković, Republic of Croatia.
Winner of several international awards for poetry, including:
Award of university professors in Trieste, 2019.,„Mak Dizdar“ award, 2020.
Award of the Publishing Foundation of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2021.
„Fra Martin Nedić“ Award, 2022.

She is represented in several international anthologies of poetry.