It’s hidden in a dark brown wall,
coming to life when you enter under the domed crown,
welcoming you from the outside –
an average street – into a world all its own;
into a fragrant sweet and smokey sound
of smooth feel-good lyrics
behind the barista who, in between drink requests,
talks with her friends at the black
leather bound booth, midway through the cafe sits
the zlatna ribica magnified in the convex of its vase
as golden as the yellow tint
from the vintage lights,
none of them matching, just
as out of place as every other
story in this cafe, yet
every frame holding a moment in time
known to a few and, to all others,
only imagination fashions a fiction,
every mirror reflecting tomorrow’s memories,
every postcard from backpackers’ homes
finding new homes blended into umber walls,
all belong to the atmosphere’s serenity
of cultures beneath glass-covered table tops,
where people slip their country’s currency
to embed themselves in the cafe
even after they’ve left,
having just as much of a place in its history
as the bold, graphic posters advertising
events from two, thirteen or twenty seven years ago
a musician’s debut, a comedian’s tour,
an energy that has passed and yet lives here
adding breath to conversation over a
kafu, pivo, topla čokolada, Sensation
bringing people together to exchange souls
in the course of an afternoon.
