Street lamps were burning on all sides
and the decorated trees were shining bright.
Petards, rockets, fireworks. The celebratory shooting
made the atmosphere relaxing, almost home-like.
I told her about a Dane to whom, over beer and
in miserable English, I’d tried to explain why I wasn’t
going home for Christmas. We pressed against each
other in the cold, tiny room, listening to the explosions
of chestnuts in the oven. And we believed
that we had escaped, that we were safe.

Translated by Omer Hadžiselimović

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