Verses of the Vast Velimir

The slums resounded, full of sound,
The forest groaned and rang around,
So that, so that,
The hunter's spear would strike the beast down flat!

Deer, oh deer, why bear so bold
A love's word in your antlers' hold?
The arrow's copper on your flank,
And the aim was sure, no need to thank!

Now your legs will break, you'll fall to earth,
And death will greet you with clear mirth,
And horses whisper, full of grace:
"We do not carry slender race!"

In vain you sought, with youthful charms,
To flee defeat with beauty's arms,
And with your spear, you tried to flee
The hunter's strike that sought to be!

The horse's breath now draws so near,
Your antlers hang, you feel the fear,
And with a tremble, bowstrings snap -
No hope for you, the hunter's trap!

But suddenly, a lion's mane,
A claw as sharp as endless pain,
And with a playful, careless jest,
He showed THE ART OF TOUCHING BEST!!!

No cry, no shout, no bitter strife,
They lie in graves, the end of life,
While he, with ruler's proud command,
Beheld the slaves who kissed the sand...

The train, climbing the steep slope, creaked heavily on its rails, as if the earth itself resisted its movement. Kicking up a cloud of dust, its black sidewalls cast brief shadows on the dull morning. The outside world was tossing in the grey light - trees, like blurred silhouettes, flickered in the window, and the sun's rays, already tired from their morning struggle with the fog, pierced them, dividing them into stripes of light and shadow. The clatter of the wheels sounded not just like the sound of a mechanism, but like a wheezing breath, more frequent and insistent with each revolution.

The man in the white suit moved with astonishing speed, not noticing how his elegant attire, slightly fluttering, was soiled with dust. The lightness of his steps did not hide his inner readiness for any unexpected turn of events. He was beyond panic, held back only by a cruel determination. His face remained imperturbable, as if he were a stranger to the storm that raged around him, but there was tension in his eyes, like a stone about to slide into the water.

In the distance, on dark horses, the gendarmes were not far behind. Their cries, sharp and commanding, echoed in the air, but they only scattered their efforts, trying to catch up with the fugitive. The young officer in the dark uniform quickened his steps, not taking his eyes off the rushing train. He jerked the reins, forcing the horse to rise up, preparing for a dash. A sabre flashed in his hand, glittering in the dim light. A signal to the engineer - he must slow down, take a step back. But the train, like an iron shadow, did not slow down.

The man, sensing the proximity of pursuit, did not hesitate. He pierced the nearest carriage with his gaze, his consciousness clearly drawing the trajectory of salvation. Stopping at the doors, he lifted his leg in one movement, without losing a second, and slid into the aisle, merging with the moving mass.

An old man sat at a small table, right by the window. His grey hair, gathered in a careless bun, as well as the deep wrinkles that cut through his face, betrayed the years from which the traces of time could not be washed away. However, in his gaze there was none of the heavy despair that usually accompanies old age. On the contrary, the old man's eyes - hidden behind narrow glasses - were attentive, tenacious, as if he could recognize any hidden trace, any unnecessary sound. In his hands he held a newspaper, but, apparently, it was only a cover. Leafing through the pages, he did not read, but rather caught the rhythm of the world in which he was immersed.

The man, without saying a word, pressed himself carefully against the doorway and raised his hand almost imperceptibly, making a sign for silence. He was too tired to speak. His hands trembled slightly, but not from fear - it was the physical strain that had worn him out over the past few hours. He entered and, without losing a moment, sat down opposite the old man, leaning back on the soft back of the seat, trying to hide his relief. It was temporary, but obvious, like breathing after a long run. His chest rose and fell slowly, and several times he involuntarily hunched his shoulders, releasing the pain in his back.

The old man did not move, did not look up from his newspaper, but his face remained completely calm, as if this man, with his pale face and white suit, barely hiding the streaks of dirt, was not on the run at all. As if a stranger, obviously frightened and obviously pursued, had never entered this carriage. He continued to read, or at least pretended to read, but his gaze did not leave those distant, hidden horizons that he himself saw.

The man studied the old man, as if trying to find a reflection of his own thoughts in his face. His gaze became insistent, almost X-ray-like, penetrating this silent world created by the old man. He did not know what exactly he was looking for, but the feeling was familiar, as if something important was about to be revealed in these moments of silence. And yet the old man remained as indifferent as he had been from the very beginning.

When the man finally felt that he would gain nothing from this silence, he let out a quiet breath and, turning his head to the window, watched the trees flashing past the glass. The forest seemed to swallow everything around, its dark, intertwined branches merging with the dark sky, and only rare patches of snow, like torn rags, interrupted this impenetrable darkness. For a moment, his thoughts became foggy, like the world outside the window.

Suddenly, a flash of light flashed in front of the glass. A light butterfly, despite the piercing wind and the cold morning light, gracefully circled in front of the window. It seemed to dance with the reflection, shimmering with soft wings, almost weightless in its fragility. The man smiled reluctantly, and his face, which had seemed carved from stone, weakened for a moment, losing its sharpness.