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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 02 | volume I | April-May, 1998



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 02April-May, 1998
Prose

Clouds

/5
p. 1
Tomislav Osmanli

   “H-h-hey…”, even today I can still hear and see Pepe whispering, all choked up in excitement, looking at the clouds that were flowing on the blue summer sky of our childhood. I am still convinced that there aren't, nor that  there ever will be such clouds any more.
       The clouds are like a child's world. The colors, the shapes, the structures, the space, the dimensions of the childhood that never repeat. No matter if all of them are still materially unchanged, once you've returned to the abandoned place of your childhood, everything seems to be different, altered, poorer, paler, even smaller compared to the image of the childish experiences that are written in the memories that reality so desperately tries to identify with. This is when the old magic that imprints things in the memory, seems to be irrecoverably gone even from the most unchangeable objects or places.
       Still, everything seems to be different with the clouds. Apart from the stiffed objects of the past, they never stand still. They change repeatedly, taking the most peculiar positions and the most unreal shapes, formed either by their own odd inspirations, or by their own strange whims. When the clouds get moved and start changing forms, that surely means that they lead high-styled discussions with the wind roses in the skies: sometimes quickly and in high voices, and other times slowly and solemnly. But, sometimes in that moving sky polyphony of the all-kind winds, the cloudy tenors of the high flyers mingle through the open space with the basses of the heavy cumuluses in a magnificent diversity of the sky-whisperers. That rich game of the moving positions and shapes of the white, once stretched and sparse and the other times foamy and fluffy sky creations, appears to be either a serene windy, or  a stormy sky fairy tale that floats indispensably. That sky tale can be seen only if we look deep into the marvelous and unrepeated fluid game in the skies, leaving itself freely to the cloud fantasy… But exactly those stories, those exciting fairy tales are what is missing today. It seems thay have simply disappeared, gotten lost, or blown by the winds somewhere far away, in the azure immenseness of the childish sky.  
       “H-h-hey, c-c-clouds!”, shouted Pepe for himself, looking at the silly game of the clouds, and choking from excitement – the sole reason for his stuttering talk. The






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