Pa kaj če pišem 2016

The hunter

My uncle is a hunter. I have seen guns many times.

A bullet soars through the air leaving lines; a fascinating array of emotions at times,

but this leaves a hole without any signs. I've never seen words as bullets before, some can never miss the core; I wish you swore, I needed more. I think I left you on the floor, then why am I, whose heart is soar. I am not.

Your pain extends my own times three, these chains of hurt slay you and me; if only I could make you flee, but a hunter never lets pray free.

Nina Kranjac, 4. C

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