SOLDIER'S WOUNDWORT, haibun

. by Dimitar Anakiev . On a winter day long gone by, at daybreak, dressed up in olive-grey uniform, I got off the train and onto the frozen platform of the railway station in Radovljica. Snow creaked under my first steps made in military boots and as far as my eye could see was mere whiteness: white tops of the Julien Alps, a white fog stretching over the frozen river in the valley… For a Southerner who had travelled over a thousand kilometers in a night, this was a view of infinite yet unwelcoming beauty. Just after having completed my studies of medicine – I was twenty-seven years old at the time – I was sent to do my military service and soon I ended up in a real war. After the victory of nationalism and the collapse of Yugoslavia I remained in Slovenia to lead an isolated life in political disfavor. People mostly disregarded me and the whole of my emotional life was filled up by a tuxedo cat, whom I called Momčil. We survived together for almost six years. He was my closest cousin and the best friend, my teacher… Here I am now, standing by his grave. Out of the grave of my tomcat Momčil --  soldier’s woundwort