Once, the poet wrote on a town, the following:
“To make a choice of telling on a town, to reduce so long and onerous centuries of singing and thinking to a few poet’s moments, to a few known poets names, then it means to reproach to the town you care for, in which you create and persist...”
When you love and want so much, it is worth to reproach, even to somebody you love. But it is most difficult for a man to reproach to himself. So, why not to tell something you learn, and it seems to be worth of mention and giving to the people? Isn’t walking with love accros this world bigger reproach, and not to make that love deeper and reacher?
And different love exists in ourselfs. The one is the most steadfast and finest. Towns live and dream inside the people, in their happiness and sorrow, in their mirth and melancholy, in their desire, in their religion and infidelity, in calm and anger, in elation and in disappointment, in captivity and rambling. And it is very rare love, love that constantly rises from man’s beginning to his cessation.
Mostar. Love and fascination of many, known and unknown, all the same, but the same in fascination and devotion. Mostar, the spectrum of times good and bad ones, the oasis of man’s unfinished vision.
This town definitely, has something in its inner that captivates, something that man only can sense during his whole existence. People feel it in the town, that and such town, feel it strongly like a high tide or floods experienced for the first time. And then, it seems for a man like a lost river that was dreaming and long for the sun, light and for brightness.
It also can happen when the night comes from the “shady Cim”, and when the day comes from Velez mountain and when it rains from the south, and when the wind blows from Prenj mountain, and when the heat is so strong that can thwarts your mind.
So, maybe these are reason for many nice talking about the town come out from a man. For the glory of man. But, the town lives and exists in a man. It is unusually that, as soon as Mostar is mentioned, immediately and spontanliously thoughts run towards the bridge, towards The Old Bridge. Or maybe it is only obtrusive imagination that its breath nearly can be felt.
“The petrified moon” – poets named it. “The captured gull” – artists named it. And it is not important how some new people will name it, people who visit it. It is important and it is nice that it will exist in their inner for long time, constantly. Because, he is such a bridge, the dream and reality in the same time.