Absinthe: Lost In Our Own Green Dreams. {poetry}


“Be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.” ~ Charles Baudelaire

In the very heart of this small, small, magical city
You find the ancient doors of Old Absinthe House of New Age.
Time sleeps here.

All signs point to this place. All signs point out of this place.
Yet, it cannot be seen by everybody. It is invisible to the eye.
Unfathomable to the real perception of things.
An illusion.

Everything is constant here. Ages go by, but everything inside remains the same.
The tables are the same, the chairs, the cushions, the hookahs, the tapestries,
The paintings, the worn-out candles and all other antiquities placed all around.

The lights are also constantly the same. And the smell of stagnant time.
And the owners that like us. And the waiters that don’t.
Everything is always in its place.
Always, always the same.
Just like we are.

At opening, the door makes a unique sound each time.
It is a different sound for each of the guests. A password.
New Age has no place for surpluses. There are no accidental guests.
All the visitors are always the same.

And all is always here and all is always now.
In the heart of the present moment, behind the labyrinth called Desire.
This is where the green fairy sleeps. Gentle, transparent, inconstant as a gleam.
She sleeps behind the curtain of velvet dreams.
Safeguarding desires.

All progressively mad people are here.
It is simply impossible, if she has shown herself to you once,
For you not to call her again and again and again…
In the corner of the glass full of green-brownish liquor, she will show you her face.

“Sit down, rest, have a drink, my darling,” she whispers to me, so quietly, quietly.
“Rest, dream, dream greenest of dreams, dream most beautiful of dreams,
colorful dreams, parallel dreams, continents, Atlantis…
… dream the strangest of dreams, dream the impossible dream…
… dream of the one that haunts you, that loves you,
that is not letting you breathe normally again,
the thing without which there is no meaning to anything,
there is no point of returning back… there is no turning back… no back… no.”

Everyone who lost a desire is doomed to sleep eternally here.
All artists are here. All of my friends. All lunatics are here.
All of them stuck in the labyrinth of the green fairy.
And all is always here and all is always now.
And there is no way for it to change, because there is no change in this parallel.

We are all lost in our own dreams.
That is how we like it.
We are sitting one beside the other and enjoying the same thing.
Everything is the same. The same intensity.
In the corner of the glass with greenish-brownish liquor, we find ourselves.
And everything else stops to exist.

It is just then that the gentle voice comes to us, to whisper magic to us, to cuddle us.
To love us, to keep us dreaming, painting, writing, singing, loving the world…
Behind these wide shut doors
Of greenery.


Viola Damjanovski is from Skopje, Macedonia. She writes and translates poetry and short stories, and loves the avant-garde and unordinary. While she was young, Viola used to sing in a goth-psychedelic band (part of the bands consisting the first Macedonian Rock Encyclopedia). She has published short stories and poetry online under a pseudonym, and loves words, music, paintings, and everything out of the ordinary.


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