Maybe this city is really big.
Maybe the steel is cold to the touch.
Maybe the rain smells of sadness and not to get you out of bed.
Maybe the Ninth Symphony she didn’t have her chance at first.
Maybe the revolutionaries will win their battle.
Maybe this battle is not for us.
Maybe we’re not for each other either.
Maybe.–Dušan Stojković, Serbia
It’s all just one MAYBE.
And maybe not.
Maybe this town is so small to each other every day we breathe for the neck.
Maybe not even steel yet warmed by our fire.
Maybe the rain wants you to stay in bed, to be ashamed in a dreamy voice all of Beethoven’s works,
Let the revolutionary hear you and fight the battle with you.
If there was a battle.
If so, let’s meet in the middle of the battlefield, in a small house,
On the big bed, between dream and reality.
The Momma Clan 
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