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čovjek čovjeka znanjem oplemeniti ne može


by Nizar Qabbani

"Disrobe, my love,
Since it has been such
a long time since the time
of miracles. Disrobe.
And let miracles begin.
I am speechless before you.
Your body speaks all languages."

"My first mistake
(and not my last)
was to live
in the state of wonder
ready to be amazed
by the simple span
of night and day,
and ready for every woman
I loved to break me
into a thousand pieces..."

"Ah my country! You have transformed me
from a poet of love and yearning
to a poet writing with a knife."


It's just the question of the way you look at it, harlequin!

"Like a crack in glass, it cannot be mended."
Arab proverb


"(...) These times give meaning to my life and make me whole
My cup has many cracks, yet the wine always kisses the brim."
Nizar Qabbani


My dear friend

People change. It's normal. It should be normal. Change to something better. Because we're being smarter, wiser and overall with more experience on our shoulders to see the difference between right and wrong. But I see something else. And it worries me.

When her first relative says to me to keep my life for myself, to take care of myself and to be aware of her whom I know for 15 years now, what are we talking about?

I see distorted faces. Faces without expression. I see lives pictured without any emotion. That's not life. That's Madam Tussaud's Museum. And she went through hell to make it. Literally.

Life must heart. Life should or must have love. Ambition. But healthy one. Passion. For job, for loved ones, for hobbies… But all that is actually a healthy mosaic that makes one’s soul. And I’m afraid that we’re missing more and more souls every day.

I can talk to anyone. About anything. But I cannot feel you as a creature to bound with if you’re without soul. Then I wonder – why should we continue this charade? To spend each other’s time? Oh… I forgot. There’s an interest. That special word. You need me. Or you don’t at the moment. At this very moment when every vote counts. That every vote you try to grasp from every creature you can sell to your new image. And at the end of the race, you’ll need something to feel alive again. Something to show yourself that you’re more than those lousy pics. Yeah, then I’ll receive a call how much you miss me and how badly you want us to catch up.

It’s been a while since my last “people clean up”. I usually don’t like doing it. It doesn’t sound good and correct. I don’t think anyone deserves to be “cleaned up” from someone’s life. But when that someone starts wasting your time and energy and loses himself to some fictional world, you’re left with no choice except to move away or to cold things down… Hate doing that… especially with people I know for so many years…

Goodbye my friend. We had some great times together. Thank you for all that. For all that time when you were true friend. For that time when I broke up with him and you cheered me up. When we were conquering the best places in Europe. When we were dancing like there’s no tomorrow. When I was there for you for all those situations that never again must be mentioned… Our weddings… our graduations… Good times. Too bad politics got involved.



Perfume is important part of who I am. It’s deeper than letters on the paper. It’s bigger than a treasury with all those precious things in it. There’s one I wore on my wedding day. There’s one when girl thought she was becoming a woman. There’s a reminiscent of this year’s summer. There’s an egyptian one. With so many names and in so many forms, but the one that reminds me on that evening where gifts from France and Mexico were exchanged. There’s one from Sloga time. There’s another one that I’ve discovered few years ago wishing for life pictured with that perfume. There’s a one I inherited from my mother, winter one, but when there’s someone special, I put drop or two even in a summer. Drops still waiting to touch the skin of my neck… There’s a canadian one as a promise to a better world.

On the other hand, there are so many of those who bring lost ones to my memory. Even when they’re gone, there’s a scent of them in the air that awakens all those buried old photographs.

I even have a collection of empty perfume bottles. Almost one hundred of them there.  




We Were Missing a Present

Let’s go as we are:
a free woman
and a loyal friend,
let’s go together on two different paths
let’s go as we are united
and separate,
with nothing hurting us
not the divorce of doves or the coldness between the hands
and not the wind around the church . . .
What bloomed of almond trees wasn’t enough.
So smile for the almonds to blossom more
between the butterflies of two dimples

And soon there will be a new present for us.
If you look back you will see only
the exile of your looking back:
your bedroom,
the courtyard willow,
the river behind the glass buildings,
and the café of our trysts . . . all of it, all
preparing to become exile, so
let’s be kind!

Let’s go as we are:
a free woman
and a friend loyal to her flutes.
Our time wasn’t enough to grow old together
walk wearily to the cinema
witness the end of Athens’s war with her neighbors
and see the banquet of peace between Rome and Carthage
about to happen. Because soon
the birds will relocate from one epoch to another:
Was this path only dust
in the shape of meaning, and did it march us
as if we were a passing journey between two myths,
so the path is inevitable, and we are inevitable
as a stranger sees himself in the mirror of another stranger?
“No, this is not my path to my body”
“No cultural solutions for existential concerns”
“Wherever you are my sky
is real”
“Who am I to give you back the previous sun and moon”
Then let’s be kind . . .

Let’s go, as we are:
a free lover
and her poet.
What fell of December snow
wasn’t enough, so smile
for snow to card its cotton on the Christian’s prayer,
we will soon return to our tomorrow, behind us,
where we were young in love’s beginning,
playing Romeo and Juliet
and learning Shakespeare’s language . . .
The butterflies have fluttered out of sleep
as a mirage of a swift peace
that adorns us with two stars
and kills us in the struggle over the name
between two windows
so, let’s go
and let’s be kind

Let’s go, as we are:
a free woman
and a loyal friend,
let’s go as we are. We came
with the wind from Babylon
and we march to Babylon . . .
My travel wasn’t enough
for the pines to become in my trace
an utterance of praise to the southern place.
We are kind here. Northerly
is our wind, and our songs are southerly.
Am I another you
and you another I?
“This isn’t my path to my freedom’s land”
this isn’t my path to my body
and I won’t be “I” twice
since my yesterday’s taken my tomorrow’s place
and I have split into two women
so I am not of the east
and I am not of the west,
nor am I an olive tree shading two verses in the Quran
then, let’s go.
“No collective solutions for personal scruples”
it wasn’t enough that we be together
to be together . . .
we were missing a present to see
where we were. Let’s go as we are,
a free woman
and an old friend
let’s go on two separate paths
let’s go together,
and let’s be kind . . .

Mahmoud Darwish


A lesson from Kama Sutra

Wait for her with an azure cup.
Wait for her in the evening at the spring, among perfumed roses.
Wait for her with the patience of a horse trained for mountains.
Wait for her with the distinctive, aesthetic taste of a prince.
Wait for her with seven pillows of cloud.
Wait for her with strands of womanly incense wafting.
Wait for her with the manly scent of sandalwood on horseback.
Wait for her and do not rush.
If she arrives late, wait for her.
If she arrives early, wait for her.
Do not frighten the birds in her braided hair.
Wait for her to sit in a garden at the peak of its flowering.
Wait for her so that she may breathe this air, so strange to her heart.
Wait for her to lift her garment from her leg, cloud by cloud.
And wait for her.
Take her to the balcony to watch the moon drowning in milk.
Wait for her and offer her water before wine.
Do not glance at the twin partridges sleeping on her chest.
Wait and gently touch her hand as she sets a cup on marble.
As if you are carrying the dew for her, wait.
Speak to her as a flute would to a frightened violin string,
as if you knew what tomorrow would bring.
Wait, and polish the night for her ring by ring.
Wait for her until Night speaks to you thus:
There is no one alive but the two of you.
So take her gently to the death you so desire,
and wait.

Mahmoud Darwish


Solitude Exercises

He sleeps in the next room, a wall between us.
I do not mean any symbols by this,
only there is a wall between us.
I can fill it with pictures of my lover
smoking or thinking.
But I must find a neutral place for them,
respecting the distance between us.

It seems God does not love me.
I am old enough to believe that
God has not loved me for a long time, not since
he loved the math teacher
and gave him sharp eyesight
and colored chalks
and many chances to torture a girl like me
who cannot divine the link
between two unattached numbers.

But it's not important that God love me.
No one in this world, not even the righteous ones,
can prove that God loves him.

I can open the door and shut it
softly so my lover does not wake.
A girl who goes out to the street
without a place to shelter her
is not dramatic at all.

When Dostoevsky said,
"One must have a home to go to,"
he was talking about classical people
who wore long sideburns
and overcoats resembling loneliness.

I do not like melodrama
and find no reason to empty a flower of its joy
to match it to a loved one who had died.

If I leave now
I will grab the hand of the first person I meet
and force him to go with me to a side street café.
I will tell him that a man sleeps in the next room
without nightmares,
that his head was not level with my body
and he never became
a garbage pail for me, not even once—he let everything
scatter out into the street.
I will tell this stranger that I am an orphan,
and that I used to think that was enough to write good poems,
which proved untrue,
and that I did not take good care of myself
so much that a small inflammation in my sinuses
is about to become a tumor.
Yet I continue to lie—one of course
is supposed to be angelic for a little while
before dying to make it easy for his friends
to find good things to say about him—aware
that if he leaves me, my death will be easier
than moving my right foot.

At a side street café
I will tell a man I don't know many things all at once,
and I will press my vocal cords
on his old wish to be useful.
Maybe he will take me to his house and wake his wife.
I will watch her step toward me as she
tramples a filthy rug like a tractor and as I feign
shyness to comfort her and make her feel satisfied
with her husband while he advises me to start over
and as I promise him to learn to play a musical instrument that matches my
small frame
and that we meet again during the national holidays.

I threatened all who loved me with my death
if I ever lose them.
Yet I do not think I will die for anyone's sake.
Surely, suicides must have trusted life more
than they should have, and must have thought
it was waiting for them somewhere else.

I will not leave here before he dies in front of me.
I will place my ear to his chest where silence is so clear that
even a cat
with the claws of a disappointed woman who tries
to hysterically topple the pail filled
with the remains of our evening together (which
I place at the top of the stairs
to prove to the neighbors that I have a safe family)
will not make me doubt it.

I will hold your fingers
and watch with the precision
of a surgeon who does not need scalpels to remove
pustules from a deteriorating body.
I will place them in an ice bowl where there are no tremors…
And I will leave here
clad in loss, and light.

You must die in front of me.
The death of loved ones is a wonderful opportunity to find alternatives.
On the East Delta train I often pick a suitable
lady who opens the coffers of her sympathy when I tell her
my mother died when I was six.

The truth is
it happened when I was seven,
but for me "six" seems to have greater effect.
Middle-aged mothers are addicted to sadness
maybe to justify mourning before it begins.
These touch-ups in the telling
have a magic
that cannot be understood by those
who never needed to steal
from others.

Iman Mersal

Vi znate zašto, mi znamo kako!

Ne bavim se politikom niti bih se ikad time bavila. Ali ne mogu ostati gluha, nijema niti slijepa na poplavu predizbornog mulja.

Između ostalih "inovativnih" i "nadasve originalnih i obecavajucih" parola, na jednu zaista ne mogah cutati.

"Vi znate zašto, mi znamo kako!"

Prva asocijacija je sljedeća:
Vi znate zašto: jer mi dajemo diplomu, obdaniste, lijek, pos'o, grobno mjesto.

Mi znamo kako: Znamo koga treba potkupiti, znamo đe ima još da se opljačka, znamo od koga se može "iskamčiti još para", znamo kako da dobije diplomu bez položenog ispita, znamo koga i gdje treba. Znamo kako ukrasti glasove na izborima, znamo kako isprati ugasle mozgove zanešenoj rulji, znamo kako učiniti da dosijei u policiji nestanu, znamo kako dovesti i najgoreg papka do "frajera" u odijelu i bijesnoj mečki, znamo kako od ruralne sponzoruše napraviti PR menadžericu. Znamo kako od telećih glava napraviti majmunske glave - od tih Darvin reče da čovjek je postao, pa tako više liče insanu već hajvanu. Znamo mi još mnogo toga što vaši mali pileći mozgovi nikako ne mogu pojmiti, al zato naše teleće glave su tu da vas vode. Mi znamo kako uništiti sistem, kako stvoriti privid. Privid sistema, privid vrijednosti, privid nauke i kulture. Jer dovoljni smo sami sebi.


Čekajući biserje

Bablje ljeto
Posljednji vali sunca
umivaju nježno i toplo
kao da miluju
svaku uvalu moga tijela.
U sutonu neki nevini sjaj
u mojim zacakljenim očima
što smiješe se još jednom svršetku.
Stopala uranjaju u pijesak
tražeć' čistije dubine
za novi početak.
Dlanovi dotiču vale u predvečerje
umivajući svaki mladež na tijelu
ljubeć' kožu žednu poljubaca,
ispisujući stapanje tijela
s vodom, suncem, školjkama
dok čekam baš iz jedne takve
biser da ugledam.


Jedna sjetna

Kad dotakne te veo sjete

Ne tuguj I ne zali

Jer pocascen si rijetkim nitnama duse

Sto zadrhte kao strune na gitari

Kad ih takne sjen proslog

Pa zasviraju mozda najtuzniju pjesmu

Ali sviraju

Kraj svih onih koji cute

Bez ikog svog u sehari

Da ga se sjete kada opadne lisce sa njihovih stabala

Kada inje prekrije njihove glasnice

Zato nemoj da zalis

I za cim

Jer bas tako je moralo biti

Tvoja sehara je bogatija

Za tog nekog zbog koga si opet ziv

Bogatiji si ti

Za svaki prozivljeni osjecaj

Pod krinkom onog sto u ogledalu vidis

A koliko je samo toga sto se ocima ne vidi

A cuje svim onim sto u tebi dise

Zato cuj tu melodiju mladosti

Sto nikad ne stari…


Ne pravi od tuge nauku

Kazu mi da pisem tuzno

Da pisem malo ljubavno

Malo vise od onog na sto navikli su

A ja onda malo ucutim

Da opet po ko zna koji put

Zaborave na ljubav

I da nastave zivjeti svoje uzurbane zivote

Ispunjene zelenilom u novcniku

I sivilom oko sebe.

Kazu da je to nesto nase balkansko

Da pravimo od tuge nauku

Da od ljubavi zivot ispricamo

I da bas u tome

Istece nam vrijeme za neke velike stvari

Velika otkrica

I naucna dostignuca

A ja opet zaronim u ono nesto duboko u sebi

Od cega ne znam pobjeci

Pa pisem malo ljubavno

Kao da nikad nisam ni prestala

Tek ucutala da ne uvrijedim

Sve one izgubljene duse

Izmedju sivog I zelenog

Da ne zadrhtim to nesto uspavano u njima

I pustim ih da budu tako veliki I odrasli

Mudrijasi sto imaju sve odgovore

Dok ostajem vjecito dijete

Zaigrano u bajkama

Da pisem, pjevam I slikam

Onako kako I oni pozele

Kad svjetla se ugase I maske odloze

A siva I zelena izblijede

Pred bojama duse sto zadrhti

U sjecanju na tinjalu ljubav

Vecu od bilo koje leme, teoreme I formule

Trajniju od dokaza za ista od ovoga

Jer starost zaboravlja korake

Ali ne I drhtaj, osmijeh I sjaj

Mladosti koja voljela je…



Oprosti. Budi veci covjek od mene.
Misli najgore. Olaksaj si.
I opet - oprosti.
Bog prasta, covjek ne.
I molim Ga za oprost, uvijek.
Ali sada molim tebe
Covjeka u tebi
Covjeka veceg od mene
Da iz srca izbrise
Tu mrenu nadnesenu
da oprosti
jer drugacije ne moze.
Znam. Sada znam.
I za to sto znam, oprosti.


Jednom kada odes

Jednom kada odes
I presadis svoje srce pod neko drugo plavetnilo
Ostace djelic ovog ovdje
Da te ceka
Jer tvoje je oduvijek
Ostace danju da zaustavlja plovidbu oblaka
Iz straha da od njih te ne vidi kada dodjes
Ostace nocu bez zvijezda
Da ga ne zaslijepi njihov odsjaj
Kada pojavis se opet... nekad
Jer ma gdje otisao
I ma koliko dugo tudjim splavovima plovio
Ima ono nesto odakle dusa je potekla
Kao kad kamen se raspukne
Pa potece hladna i bistra voda
Kao nigdje drugdje...
Tako ce te ostati zedna zemlja
I zeljno nebo pod kojim zakoracio si
Nebo pod kojim bio si vjeran sebi.
Tamo negdje kuda hitis
Da presadis srce svoje
Bit ces vjecno nevjeran
Jer ne otkida se srce iz ziva insana
Da bi drugom kucalo
Jace bolje snaznije
Ili samo
Da bi kucalo...
Jednom kada odes
Ostat ce trag o tebi kakav jesi
Ondje gdje istinski pripadas.


Duša zbog duše zadrhti

Čuvaš parfem
Čuvaš haljinu
Čuvaš cipele
Za tog nekog i to nešto
što možda nikad doći neće
a godine hoće
ili one ili smrt
pa čemu onda ta sehara
osim tebi samoj
da voliš sebe i ono što jesi
u svakoj godini
koja jeste i koja dolazi...
Niko ovdje nije
ni starosjedilac ni vlastelin
zato ne čekaj nikog i ništa
Ti si ta koja jeste
zato ne čekaj da kroz prste nestane
baš kad pomisliš da čvrsto se držiš
da ne ugledaš
samo prah međ' prstima
jer od zemlje smo svi
i ponovo ćemo to biti
samo dušu zemlja ne vidi
jer ne zna za taj dodir
duša zbog duše zadrhti
i diše i kad zemlja se zatvori.



Pisati. Djelovati. Ne mogu da ne pisem. Kazu u onim nekim brzopoteznim savjetima za bolji i sretniji zivot, da pored joge, dan treba zapoceti odmah po ustajanju zapisivanjem svega sto dolazi  na um bas u tom trenutku. Nadrealisti su to odavno bili skontali. Andre Breton se proslavio automatskim pisanjem. I ma koliko voljela pisati, ne mogu pisati po automatizmu. Ja pisem kad to osjecam. Kad nesto procitam, cujem, vidim, saznam. Kad se nekome nesto dogodi. Kad sebe prepoznam u nekoj situaciji.

Ja nisam dio mainstream knjizevne scene u BiH. Pisem, objavljujem, ali nisam ni boem, ni komercijalista. Dont live on that. Ali pisanje nosim kao dio svog identiteta. I za to mi ne trebaju ni priznanja, nagrade ili potvrde. Prva kritika koju sam dobila sa 13 godina je bila „Čitaj, čitaj, čitaj“. Tinejdzerski sam bila uvrijedjena. Cuj citaj. Ja pisem! Ali sam ubrzo shvatila smisao i sustinu toga. U knjige sam se strastveno zaljubila dvije godine poslije. I od tada smo u najintimnijoj mogucoj vezi. Kao sto je nekom muskarcu san biti na frankfurtskom sajmu automobila, ili zenevskom ili nekom drugom, tako bih i ja voljela otici na odmor na sajam knjiga u Frankfurt. Bila bih tamo „svoj na svom“. Cini mi se da bih od jutra do mraka bila tamo. Zaboravila bih i na hranu i na pice, zivjela bih od mirisa knjiga.

Nisam ljubitelj klasicne knjizevne scene u BiH. Ne jer nisam dio toga, ali mi se ne svidja filozofija tog pravca in general. U BiH postoje izvrsni samostalni autori. Ali nemaju priliku da dodju do izrazaja. Bio je jedan momak DZ.S. koji je pisao na najljepsi moguci nacin. Stomatolog po struci. Ali vec godinama ne pise. Steta. Jednostavno nije mirisao kako scena trazi da se mirise.

I shvatila bih da je do mene, da je svjetski trend takav. Ali nije! Na putovanjima uzivam u otkrivanju novih knjiga. U zadnje vrijeme kupujem vise knjiga nego odjece i obuce na putovanjima. Sto je totalno nekarakteristicno za zensku osobu. Dobro, za regular female. I tako na putovanjima u zadnje vrijeme zapazam nove autore, pratim desavanja, i tu bih izdvojila dvojicu autora: Diego Ojeda i Beau Taplin. Priznati, uspjesni, popularni, a dobri. Nesto novo, drugacije, a sustinska poezija. Sustinska knjizevnost. Iskonska. Tačka. Ljudi pisu iskreno, imaju vrhunsku tehniku, bez ijedne suvisne rijeci. I to je to. Bez komunjarskog prenemaganja. Bez lazne religioznosti. Bez udvaranja ikome. Vjerni sebi i onome sto osjecaju. I samo tako nastaju prava djela. Samo tako se moze biti veliki.



Ćutala je kad bih je pitao o njenom danu

gledala je u daljinu i plovila dalje od pogleda

tražio sam je riječima

vješto im je bježala

tražio sam je dodirima

lebdjela je iznad njih

bio sam sjena njene sjene

ostajao bih nekud iza njenih koraka

ne znajući da li uopšte koračam pravim putem

nisam imao ni mrvice ni svjetlo ulične lampe

tražio sam njen miris

kao jedini putokaz

u svijetu za koji nisam mario

tražio sam je da budem

ni njen saputnik ni njen počinak niti išta obavezujuće

želio sam biti želja

što se ostvarila

želio sam biti san

koji će sanjati i otvorenih očiju

želio sam biti sve ono

za čim žudi tiho ili glasno

ali duboko i daleko

od ičijeg pogleda

od bilo koga ko bi mogao dotaknuti taj plutajući balon

satkan od nitni njenog bića.



Čujem da se na put spremaš – nemoj!
Drugog voliš, drugi ti je srcu mio – nemoj!
Ne znaš kako je odvojen biti i šta znači strastvovati
S čijim srcem sad se kaniš poigrati?
Od mene se ne otuđi, ne odlazi neznanima
Kradomice na drugog pogleduješ – nemoj!
O mjeseče zbog kojeg i nebesa zbunjena su
ti nas rušiš i činiš nas smetenima – nemoj!
Gdje su silna obećanja o sastanku, o viđenju?
Zar ćeš sada riječ što dade pogaziti? Nemoj!
Šta sve nisi prisezala, šta sve nisi obećala...
Od zavjeta vlastitoga sada bježiš – nemoj!

- Rumi


Oh my God!

- Ti ces nam pripremiti zadatke za ispit.
- Hocu svakako.
- Dodji da dezuras na ispitu.
- Naravno.

Dan ispita
- E dosla si. Haj ti malo na caj, ne moras ovdje ostajati, imamo mi sve pod kontrolom.

Kraj ispita
- Eh evo ti ovi radovi pa pregledaj zadatke.

Noc pregledanja
Sve do jednog prepisano. Pripremi zadatke, nemoj dezurati (jer tada niko nista nece znati uraditi jer jedino znaju prepisati) i onda pregledaj stotine prepisanih radova svaki puta po 10 zadataka...

Pa ko je ovdje glup? Onaj sto jedino je skolu i knjigu ucio, a nije se bavio zivotnim muljanjima i prevarama...

Jadne ove generacije. Tanka su to znanja, odnosno neznanja. A najjaci je vjetar u njihovim glavama. Potpuno razarajuci. Razarajuci za zemlju u kojoj zivimo. Razarajuci za njihovu buducnost koje nisu  ni svjesni.

Jesam li ostala bas jedina koja se ne uklapa u ovaj nesistem vrijednosti?


Znam da tegoba je, al tvoja je

Divno je biti stanovnik Zemlje

svaki kutak osjećati svojim

pripadati prerijama I pustinjama

I voljeti pod injem

I pod vrelinom saharskom.

Ali znam da poželiš

imati svoj dom

imati to nešto što ti pripada

malo više I malo jače

Jer ljepše je kad znaš

da došao si u svoju kuću

da došao si nekom ko te voli

da ima neko ko te žudi

I raduje ti se.

Ljepše je biti svoj u svome

nego putujući bogataš.

Ljepše je sjesti na livadu

čiju biljku svaku znaš

I sa koje pogled je tako dobro poznat

jer pod tvojim je nebom

ta svaka kuća I čovjek

čiju čehru znaš.

Težak je, znam.

Ali tu težinu poznaš.

Žmireći bi mogao otići bilo kuda

a uvijek koračati zemljom svojom

jer znaš kako kiši se raduje

kako suncu se nasmije.

Baš tako znaš

da taj savršeni osmijeh

nema ono nešto što te zagolica

I prigrli I bez zagrljaja;

taj osmijeh koji ti nikada neće pripadati

ma koliko se trudio

ma koliko pokoljenja iza tebe ostalo

jer tvoja zemlja je neka druga

ona u koju kosti ostaviš

ona gdje proplakao si prvi put

gdje ugledao si svoj komad plavetnila

I pod kojim počinuti želiš.

To je tvoj dom

to je ono čemu srce se raduje

I kad razum druge staze pronalazi.




dok još tvoje zemlje ima.

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<< 09/2016 >>


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Neotudjiv dio
Neotkidiv dio mene je muzika. Neki od onih koje volim su:

Boris Novkovic, posebno
"U dobru i zlu"
"Mi smo jači i od sudbine"
"Šta je sa princezom moje vrele mladosti"
"Emily" - izuzetno draga
Olivia Newton John, pa cini mi se sve od nje :)
Kelly Family, posebno
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"I can't help myself"
Roxette, posebno
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"Spending my time"...
Cindy Lauper, posebno
"I drove all night"
"Girls just wanna have fun"
"Time after time"
"True colors"
Celin Dion, posebno
"Because you loved me"
"Think twice"
"All by myself"
"The Power of Love"
"It's all coming back to me"...
"Nedostajes mi"
"Tvoja prva djevojka"
"To je moja stvar"
"Pogled ispod obrva"
"Poželi me"
Oliver Dragojević
"Žuto lišće ljubavi"
Kemal Monteno
"Pismo prijatelju"
"Sarajevo, ljubavi moja"
"Nije htjela"
"Kako sam te voljela"
"Tri sam ti zime šaptala ime"
"Ti si želja mog života"
"Minut srca tvog"
Roy Orbison
"Love hurts"
"It's over"
"In dreams"
"Pretty Woman"
"Vejte snegovi"
"Dodirni mi kolena"
"Rukuju se rukuju"
"Ozenices s ti"
Piloti i Kiki Lesandrić
sve :)
Oliver Mandić
"Odlazim a volim te"
i jos poneka...


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