This gift-book consists of eighty prose-poems, which have been written in the form of a farewell letter sent to a loved person. It is also some kind of ode to an unusual spiritual closeness, rare beauty and a great and sorrowful love.

The book has been greeted with great enthusiasm by its readers.
Here is an excerpt from a letter from a reader, Dara Radojevic, who is a poet hersellf.

„I received the book „Poems of Perfect Love“ from a friend.  And what a gift it was!  A beautiful, small, perfectly designed book... I am reading it...  My body cells are moving... I am growing from within myself... I can feel my soul expanding... I smile and sigh at the same time... looking at the cover of the book... I kiss the book... reading it again...Oh dear God, dear God... some angelic soul must have written it... someone who has climbed the heights of the realm of love itself, but of love attained through suffering, I would say...  It is myself, I ponder... No, rather, this could be me when I „grow“ further... There I wish to go... this soul is my teacher... I am intoxicated by gentleness and wisdom.  I am grateful to God for this gift, grateful to my friend through whose hands this book was given to me...

Nena, Nena, Nena... was a name that oft bloomed on my lips those days. (...)
I too would like to give this book away to someone as a present, this holy book on love, expressed in the most poetic language imaginable and the most beautiful prayer music... (...)

So my dear Nena, a gift among gifts, you live inside of me and in those that I am linked to spiritually as a lighthouse over our most celebrative moments in life.“




I wondered whether I should call you, but for what reason would I do so?  We have, anyhow, already said everything to each other even before the first words had ever been spoken.  And we know everything there is to know about each other.  So it seems that it is all the same whether to call you or remain silent in my own little corner of the world.

But, nevertheless, behind the cobwebs of my reality, like a veil of illusion, there flows the stream of Your life.  And its murmuring sound, although hardly audible, enters my dream, and resonates and hums like the primeval AUM of my reality.

And just like the Earth spins around its axis so too does the thread of our distant closeness pass through my being and I owe to it all the real and proper upright steps I had ever made.


I had been hesitating for so long to lower the seal of truth onto the whiteness of our love.  It was easier for me to believe in its non-existence, transience or even its weird and non-ordinary reality.

O, how difficult it is to carry the burden of love, and to enter a new morning with it whilst at the same time to be laughing and still have the strength to bear so many other things required for sustaining even a single lone life.

That is how, on numerous occasions, I had left it behind, certainly not unintentionally, behind the corners of my streets, covertly forgetting them in front of other people’s door steps, akin to inserting thread through a needle head, in fact threading it into someone’s dream.

For you can give anything away to others except that which is truly Yours.


I would, nevertheless, like to see You, as You would, surely, wish to see me.

But even if we were never to encounter each other again, do we stand to lose anything by this?  Is there anything that can be lost?

Sometimes I wonder what our life would have been like if we had lived it together?  Or perhaps I am not asking myself this, as if I already knew, up to the minutest detail, each moment of it; as if we had already, long ago, lived through it all…

Then someone might inquire: why then such words?  Why then any wishes or thoughts?

I would certainly like to see you, for it is not at all the same to tread on the ground as it is to fly aloft through the sky.


Forgive me, please, for having been erasing our love for so long, conjuring up thousands of forms of its disappearance, thousands of multicolored, scented erasers so devilishly disobedient…

They have eaten up and consumed my days, hours and minutes, erased so many people and events, but not a single letter or word of love.  With what had that Word been written down with, that Word, which had come before all else?

And why had I been in such a struggle with it, why had I not allowed it to sign itself under my works, my writings and all of my years?

Why has this love been so objectionable to me?  Why has this love been disturbing me so much? when I never really had anything else apart from it.


Forgive me for not believing You that you too had once loved, or rather, I had not believed that you had ever loved as much as I.

O, such selfishness, such conceitedness, this impossibility for me to walk in Your sandals and to be perfectly Yours, I who have always been precisely that, and that there was, in fact, no merit in it on my behalf and none of Your merit, either.

Once long ago, indeed very long ago, He, to whom we both had been more faithful to than to each other, had willed to create two souls, akin to twin souls, bound to each other with threads of pure love.

In order for them to be able to look at each other, to be constantly able to gaze at each other, he had bestowed upon them, immensely enjoying their fixed stares, a great distance, and one cannot even apply the word great here, for this is only a distance that is hardly sufficient to contain and harbor all of the closeness existing between us.


Like some distant light on top of the waves, as from a poem by Tagore, you shine before my eyes from whatever and everything that my gaze is fixed upon in the deep darkness.

As the hand of an angel, you touch me whenever I get too close to the edge of my own reasonableness.

And though you cannot see when I am approaching a fall, You, nevertheless, know when it is more suitable for You to be with me.

As some gentle voice you beckon me from the center of being and then I always accompany You along our secret forests and lakes, of which no one is aware, save for the imagination of some unborn writer.

Perhaps it is not necessary to realize all of one’s dreams, but it is indeed necessary to rely on them.


O, the number of children You and I have! Children to whom we are leaving an inheritance consisting of our love.

I waited for You standing beside the window, and then I wished to have children, and then I glanced downward:  I could only see a single bench surrounded by bushes.  But at that very moment, out ran some children out of the bushes, like a flock of birds, filling the whole bench.

Later, many times later, I wondered about the meaning of that vision, an image and vision that has never ceased to exist in my mind.  You know very well that I firmly believe this is God’s way of speaking to us and I call this the living alphabet.

Now I know that those were children who will know how to recognize their own love in ours, for we cannot give life to anyone, if they do not already have that life in themselves.


When one realizes that there is no beginning, or rather that I cannot find it in my memories, I plead solemnly: “O Lord, please free me of this liberty,” without knowing the real meaning of these words.

And I crossed the desert in which the only water to be found consisted of my tears…

And when I finally admitted to myself that there is no end, I spoke out solemnly as I did before: “O Lord, thank you for granting me this freedom,” without my truly knowing the meaning of those words, but my tears had turned into pearls, and the desert into a beautiful garden…

“A free bird is the most faithful being in existence.”  Once you had given me this thought of Eduard Stahura as a seed of the earth in springtime.  Indeed, a seed, for there was not sufficient imagination to view it as a flower.  And after many Springs had gone by, the flower of faithfulness had sprouted and I no longer need imagination to be able to see what it looks like.


I remember how I wanted it all, precisely all of it, to be placed in a letter for You and to be sent off to You…

Other people’s love, stray dogs, someone’s lost eyes, trains… my city, friends… the noble history of the world, that will perhaps be written by someone some day, children’s toys, specially that big bear, which they did not buy in my childhood days, and a beautiful girl, infinitely good and gentle, to be beside You on those terrible and wretched days when I had been far away, so far away…

And I had been searching for her everywhere, even though I knew that she could not be found in my own city, that she too must be somewhere far away, very far away…

I remember how I wished to, wished to put everything in a letter addressed to You…


If you think that I did not receive that famous great letter, which you have been announcing so fervently, and for which you had been apologizing so much, the letter that you still continue to announce, therefore if you think that I have not received it, or that you have not written it, then one of us is deceiving himself or both You and I are deceiving ourselves?

Or, we both know that this is that letter that is taking you a whole lifetime to write so that it would not be ever written and one that is read during a whole lifetime so that it would never be read and understood?

I thank You for that letter, which I will never stop waiting for and one that You will never send…  I thank You, and I accept Your future apologies in advance, bigger than all the lines of all the letters that I had ever received.


There is so much of you and your presence in my eyes so that sometimes I feel such a great discomfort when I catch a glimpse of my own eyes in the mirror.)

While observing the lines of my lips I felt an unusual gentleness with which the Creator had sculpted the lineaments of man and realized to what extent my appearance or countenance was in fact His and how all appearance or likeness – is in the image of God.

Is it because of Him? Or because of You? Or because of both of you? That I feel this moment to be so special when I pay due respect to the countenance by observing it for a longer period of time in the mirror.

Then, in fact, I am not looking at my own image, but at His artfulness contained in it, and that is when my soul always emerges as a captive appearing in a prison-house window who looks at me, looks at me with Your eyes, Your sad eyes, full of desire…


The gift of inerasable love that I carry inside of me was not given by you, but yet it is a gift from You after all…

From You, whom our Maker had created as a poem for me and had whispered it out like an incantation at the moment of my creation, at that wondrous moment, when an artist feels that his work is ready to speak for itself, as if, he, the artist, had never existed at all.

You are the key to the cell where my soul resides.  Whenever you appear the door opens and freedom enters inside.


If You were perfect, or if I was perfect, how perfect would then also be our love? As long as I had believed you to be so, I did not love you then, indeed, I did not know how to love.

From the moment I realized just how weak and fragile you were, from that moment onward an unusual joy commenced – a joy out of nowhere, a poem began inscribing itself…

Love is a gift worthy of those who err and those who feel remorse. If there were anything that any Angel could envy a man for then it would be for his privilege to tread the path of the conquest of love.

An Angel possesses love only, and man only has love and the path leading to it. The Angel has reality only (for love is the only reality), and man has both reality and his own wondrous and frightful illusion.

Those that are in love do not differ from each other through their love, but by the path they had trodden on leading them to love.
If You were but perfect, or if I was perfect, how perfect would then also be our love?


The Heavens are the only home of birds, those most faithful of beings in the world.

The Heavens are Your and my home, our common abode, which we are nearer and nearer to from day to day.

We are, in fact, two wanderers, who are slowly, very slowly, returning home. Two runaway children whom someone is in search of, who have been watched for so long by someone from afar, over there from that hill top, and that someone is waving to us, calling us forth, spreading his arms, heading toward us…

We know that there exists that wondrous place where it would not be possible for us to be but to be together, that place to which lead all of our paths, where we will for long periods in his embrace be crying in joy, looking through eyes behind which no one will ever be held captive, with eyes that will know how to distinguish dream from reality, the dream in which we dreamt that we were far away, so far away from home.


I do not fear Your fears, and do not feel apprehensive about Your apprehensions. When you come to see me please bring them all with you. And I shall bring out all of my worries before You, as I had done earlier.

Are there indeed any better gifts than gratuitous faith?

We still know how to graft wild fruits and we know by the smell of their blossoms
what the fruitage will be like. And we never forget our gardens; at night, indeed, at night we descend into vineyards in our baskets made of dreams and trim the forgotten vines…

Does not worry, when you come to see me all things will breathe and shine in perfect harmony…

I do not know what I shall say to You, I only suspect that we shall remain silent for a long time… I am not familiar with words as I am with silence and tears.

But I do know that You always bring me precisely those fruits that grow next to each other in the garden right in front of our house.


And we will be dancing for so long, so long a time, weighing only as much as our two joyous beaming souls weigh. And we will fly between stars, up and down, sliding through the Universe as light as two small paper airplanes hurled from some heights.

And we will listen to the song of the Milky Way, the myriad star choruses… and violins angelic…

And we will conclude, as we have had so many times before, how the Lord finds pleasure in a world created for love…

And our eyes and our bosoms and all of our movements, will be filled with this infinite awe, which is born from the presentiment that the two of us are also – two of His teardrops, perhaps even just two tears of His, sliding down his cheeks and falling into his lap, full of pain and love.


It is simply not possible for the Almighty to love us more than we are capable of loving each other without ever weeping together with us.

And since our suffering is such as to be able to fill up whole oceans, then where does he find place for his own? And how does he ever think up all those messages through which he ceaselessly offers us warning and beckons us?

It is owing to You that I can hear him better; You are the flute sounding in my ears on which He plays ceaselessly. And I am only a word, that same word which lies hidden in all Your poems.

It is simply not possible for the Almighty to love us more than we are capable of loving each other without ever dancing and weeping together with us.



That which is truly yours you cannot give to others, but only that which is Yours will you be able to share with others.

To give presents is easier than sharing. Presenting gifts is something that happens casually and along the way, but sharing requires companionship for it is permeated with worry and requires much wisdom.

That which you have given away as a present you may readily forget immediately and you may give it up altogether. That which you share with others is a part of You that continues growing in other persons, you cannot ever retrieve it, but it never ceases to be Yours.

Sharing, therefore, requires faith and trust, colossal faith, that the other person will nourish and water a part of You in himself/herself, so as not to whither away. That is why sharing is courage. When you decide to share out into the hands of another being, you thus place there both your life and your death.



You are the pattern in the weaving of my existence. You are the secret code that unlocks all that is mine. You are the manner in which I dance, flying from cloud to cloud…

You are the answer to all my questions, always unexpected, which raises me from one world to another.

You are my sailing boat on the ocean of infinite tranquility and bliss. My most beautiful ark.

The contours of your body are only an illusion, Your soul has no limits, and it is in my eyes that You are endless…

And thus when I am not asking You anything then, in fact, I am asking You; And when I do not see You – I do indeed see you. And when You are silent You are speaking inside of me; and when you are asleep you are awake inside of me .

This poem is the only truth that speaks of us.



Whenever I speak to You the air enters my lungs so differently, words start coming out differently, more freely, more easily, and then again everything is so commonplace…

The pure primeval brightness of the day showers us with divine luminosity… The Heavens open two eyes that are smiling on me… The forest spreads open its arms to embrace us…

If we touch the Sun – we then become its ray. The world is all made up of love – being just as it is.

Our thoughts slide easily as the waves of the sea towards the shore…

The distance separating us, crumbles with every sentence and disappears…


When speaking to others I do not feel the same closeness as with You…


When I am talking with You even an ordinary greeting becomes poetry, or at least the title of a poem.

The endless tranquility of Your being finds endless tranquility inside of me and it is as if those two tranquilities are constantly hugging and kissing.

I wonder whether the two of us are ever having a conversation or is it the forests, seas, fields, rivers talking? Are we announcing to each other our deeds and dreams or is it the planets trembling whilst paying visits to stars of their own in their eternal circling movement?

What manner of current is it that commences from You toward me, carrying me off to worlds distant, on a voyage through my own soul vast and without end?

It is only when we talk to each other that I am my true self, limitless, bound by nothing, a vast country, a vast sky, a secret vast.