A Serbian Poet

A Serbian Poet. He was a poet; perhaps he still is, scribbling words on the wall of a cell in Haag. A mass of hair, an unfinished symphony gloomily greying in artificial light and will his hair ever feel the sensation of the wind tussling his tresses? Once upon a time people called him Doctor, he was A psychiatrist, prescribed valium to his patients, he should keep doing this but politics and power got in the way, he the president a dream that will never leave him. A poet can’t handle the power, so let him write that a thousand times on the wall of his cell.