In English, Please

In the World Today

I read an interview with a young poet today
(He is not so young at 31 years old)
He said that he is present in some form
in most of the poetry today
I liked that and thought it was a prerogative
for a young poet
The young poet lives in a small town
where, according to him, culture thrives
Denizens dress up and go to
cultural events; they participate and
run their refined palettes over
coarse poems and smooth prose
rub them carefully between fingers
and bring to the equally refined noses to discriminate
I liked that even more – the small town
on the outskirts of the world
with robust appetite for culture
(I am developing a taste for small towns)
Then he was asked a question about his other passions
and he said that there was one thing
a reputation, if you wish – he likes older women
Older by a year, or by twenty
His range is like his presence in poetry
and the culture of his town –
far-reaching and unbridled
I liked that the best
Mostly because I could imagine
the proud folk of the town
reading the interview
of their talented son
and nodding in agreement
as if all is well with the world


How funny it is to think now
of that time
when I entered the house
where I felt I belonged
Or it belonged to me
It was factually a ground floor
of a renter’s house
in a well-lit neighbourhood
that cozied itself in the middle of downtown
Two rooms at the front
one over there
one here
bathroom, kitchen and windows
following walls
or the other way around, and around
I stood in the centre of that house
and closing my eyes
(so I wouldn’t get embarrassed)
I imagined lying on the floor face down
with arms spread out
Then I said to the people I met there
„Please, leave my house now“

Sensational Haiku

„I am a phenomenal woman“
says phenomenally
Ms. Maya Angelou

I am too

It Snowed All Day

It snowed all day – the first snow
of the season hallmarked
with slit-open desperation
It is different this time
I bought new boots yesterday
That was lucky!
There was no heat at home
(a printed excuse pasted
to every door and inside elevators
said it was an emergency)
I am not poor now and I pay high price
for a home that doesn’t have heat
The staff frequently put lies to the walls
signed by the manager
with added apology for inconvenience
at the bottom
“This is exemplary hypocrisy”
I tell my daughter pointing at them
My fingers cold
I was dropping angry words
at the walls and the tropical fish
in a small bowl all morning
She understood and hung still
in the cold water of her bowl
I complain habitually – soon
the Lady of the Office arrives
thermometer in her hand sticking out
as if she’s a doctor on a house-call
Within moments we have diagnosis
“Yes, my dear,”
she concludes every year
“you are insane”
I swallow my anger and decide to get fat
by next winter
Then I’ll inspire fear – I could eat them
for lunch and have a beer
It was on the way to the bank
on Yonge Street that I remembered
how lucky I was
to have new boots
and small knitted gloves
that made my hands look like
cutouts from craft paper
Out on the snowy streets
icy and cold
I treaded in my rubber soles
to the school on Avenue Road
where my baby waited for me
It was dark and the winter idyll glittered


I had a dream finally
a beautiful dream

in which I met
a former lover and he didn’t hate me

He did not explain why such lack of
resentment – although I’ve noticed that men
remember sex better and
they remember love better
but that must be because men claim
and steal and love to think that they
remember everything better

He was beautiful in that dream
Not only did age not touch his face
but it has reshaped itself into
that of a virile adolescent cherub
framed with blond wavy hair and marked
as a target with round red lips

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror
positioned perfectly stage-like in that dream
its only intent that I gain a more realistic
perspective on this unexpected rendezvous

Red and black face cringed into a silent
scream and eyes popping out all blood-shot
I looked like a particularly ugly version
of the Devil

But he looked on at me lovingly
as if he’d never seen anything so beautiful
L. C.

I am falling for Leonard again
Like a blanket over land
tucked in from the rain
and thunder

In a moment of despair once
a moratorium on love songs was issued
Until a few dozen dissolved
in the drinking fountains
of large cities
there will be no more love songs!
‘Drink!’ shouted a woman
looking like my mother
in the year preceding her death
Wearing her hair down
her lips and her hips young
she posed
with a steaming espresso
and bikini-clad
If I had introduced her to Leonard
he would have pawned his heart
A poet’s heart for my mother
But what of that – she is long gone
and now this heart not mine
keeps falling in and out of love
instead of her

When I fell in love with Leonard the first time
I slept with a skinny boy who shaved my head
He never knew that the madness of tea and oranges
was printed all over my white
cotton dress with small flowers

Years ran  before
I stumbled upon some courage again
I featured Leonard in a story then
and paid him a visit
I remember, standing in the kitchen
he commanded my attention with his voice

Once, he said
there was a time when young men and boys
had names like strongmen and heroes
They didn’t trust history
and so they fell in love
That was how young girls and women
would remember them

At Leonard’s that night
Loneliness curled above lit candles
and vanished
Misery ran after – an abandoned bride
Audacity stayed
As a companion, he said
To lend a hand
when I find myself again
going through record crates and
randomly opened books
in search of someone to love

I Command, Please

Cheat if you will
Steal, sure, steal and lie
if you must
Live with it any way you know
And be proud – how else, you are proud
Be dishonourable if it’s your way out
But uphold one, just one
commandment of mine

Don’t kill

Comparatives on Better

In New York Magazine
the staff writer bears the drudge
of a slavery-inspired industry that is seeing
a vertical surge while it hogs
the prime locations that would otherwise
be rented to similar-minded enterprises
She has submitted herself to the close
encounter with poverty and was touched
by hands that have seen dirt and despair that
if she knew about may have deterred her
from the cheap service and bits of relaxation
they provided through the mani&pedi combo
At that cost – the maltreated immigrants
underpaid and afraid of the tremors in their
boss’ temper – I too could afford to relax

Capitalism, the undisputed stallion of our prime
capricious and mercurial in its greed
shares its loot after all: charity wings
of benefactors in hospitals and art galleries
alike turn cities into clean examples of
afterthought and redemption
There is nothing better – shrug philosophers
and retired oligarchs concur in their villas
Better is what better is
Slavery on the main street
will tell you – it is worse everywhere else

And So I Read The First

And so I read the first
of the Nine Stories by J.D.Salinger
in which a young soldier returning
from World War II shoots himself
in the head above the bed
and the afternoon siesta of his lovely
young wife who had waited for him
in those dry years when emancipation
grew more out of simple boredom
than it ever could on dissatisfaction
It is the economy of his language
as it is with economy of any language
in expressing the economies of life
that I like in J.D.Salinger
Imagine the rosy cheeks of America
in the post-war years
caned out of sheer rage by those
returning to these shores as if it’s
Eldorado missed by the Spaniards
four centuries earlier
few thousand air miles to the south
and seeing that optimism can grow like
mushrooms and mildew
Impotent in its glow to tell
stories of what they saw
they claimed the unalienable right of
young men after each war to keep
their pistols now as veterans
because they may need them
to blow out something one last time
for old times’ sake

A Matter of Time

Desperately seeking
a mutually feminine way of relating
to each week and when it
comes to months I prefer not to be
called Sister Moon and associations
with lunar or lunatic circulations
and transformations drive me insane because
in the divine feminine divine doesn’t exist
and feminine cannot stand on its own
not on such thin sticks and whispers
There is nothing romantic in the female
experience except a male view on it
Cultivated as vixens maidens tarts broads tramps
and what was that other type – o yes – the girl-next-door
how could you go wrong if one day you decided
to give up being anything real and became –
O I don’t know about that because I am
not sure what is so good about not going
wrong but I am not going anywhere
not this time of year when the dog droppings
become frozen brown beads among generally
brown beads of everything generally
Every art form entombed and enbalmed a romantic view
of something as unromantic as female experience
and I hate that I don’t know anything fundamentally wonderful
outside of that failed concept because it doesn’t match
even the chair I used to sit on but it doesn’t
matter much anymore since it is only a matter of time
It is only a matter of time

Mouthful of Dirt

I turn the hot water tap
and let it run on my fingers
They slowly turn red
Warmth and then pain climb up
synapses with uneven speed
Hardened sides of my forefinger and thumb
don’t feel anything at first
I consider thermal distribution
through a lizard’s skin
It is Monday around noon
thoughts of sex draw an invisible
crown around my head
It is my Birthday perhaps that’s why
I wish there’s something to say
about this Monday
The pain in my fingers brings
tears to my eyes, face contorts
and I pull out scolded flesh with a howl
(too loud for a superficial burn)
Immediate relief at the touch of cool
air is closest to bliss
Pain follows
Memories of sex still haunt me
Intimacy is too vulnerable
with its smells, skin imperfections
and desolate urge to touch
to be awarded to anybody with memory
I look at my senselessly hurt fingers
and remember inadequacies of the past
Impotence neatly wrapped for the Holidays
(what was I to do with it?)
Premature ejaculation Type I – never saw him again
Type II – the happiest person I know
Irritated flesh from the marathon intercourse
that ran past Boston and down towards Bible Belt
Rubbing, pinching, grunting, promises
Too many promises
Too few reasons to remember them

On this bright day in October
I am looking for a job
What would I do at a job?
Lie and cheat in small ways
about minutes of my break
or the quality of what I am selling
listen to my colleagues with my ears shut
participate in the social life of the hive
and not do my share…
I can do many things once I have a job
most of them devoid of meaning
In a Meaningful Life, Life is mandatory
and looking for Meaning
is permanent employment
Most of what we do has no meaning
That is how far I’ve come
looking for a job

I put on my walking shoes
take the brown coat and brown hat
and hurry outside
I might catch the quiet period between
lunch and the end of office hours
A glass of wine in the Sun
is like a postcard from distant memories
(not mine)
Now they resemble relatives
whose open invitation to visit
has become a relic itself – I waited too long
Construction workers move like mimes
in slow strokes of timed muscle management
Yesterday they would have stopped their dance
to look at me; today they don’t
If I show them my red fingers
they might help me cross the street
and I’ll look at their muscles and jaws close up
I don’t miss sex; I miss wanting it

Everything is closed – Sunday has moved to Monday
Only churches and banks validate
the parking rules of a traditional weekend
The waitress at a patio with cold metal chairs
ignores me for fifteen minutes
I’ll go home and pick up a bottle of wine
on the way

I have a new purse
It is cheap vinyl
bought at a franchise shop run by immigrants
A Birthday present from my daughter
Her father took her to the nearest mall
led to the store with bulging purses and luggage crates
and told her to choose
He did that with best intentions
After careful and intense consideration
of practicality and style
she found one, white and blue
with buckles and many pockets
and, as she explained later longingly
it was perfect
Her father said with an air of authority
that I wouldn’t like it
and chose the one I am holding now
dreadful, dark and infinitely dull like a Black Hole
She shifted her joy from choosing to giving
and called me right away from his apartment
Her excitement played hide-and-seek of crystal music
teasing my ear
I can’t wait to see it! – I exclaimed
She couldn’t wait to see my reaction
I saw it on Sunday
Her father said that it was cheap and the receipt was inside
It could be exchanged and he’d pay the difference
to upgrade to something better
She looked at him and then at me
Back at him
At me again
Too many lessons on meaning of life
Too few reasons to forgive us

I am almost home again
The cheap wine in my hand is too obvious
Like my other employments
drinking gets me ever closer to the top of the arch
from which I can fall to pieces discretely
I turn the corner and go across the little bridge
to the cemetery
It is peaceful
save for runners whose heaving breaths
make me deliberate on a new Holiday
A Day dedicated to the Immaculate Standstill
A day we’ll all take our shoes off
and count our fingers and toes
like someone unerringly did
when we were born
On our Birthdays
No posters please
and no collections for fingers and toes
A squirrel hangs upside-down on the closed water faucet
and furiously licks water drops
its hind legs crossed over the metal pipe for support
one intelligent eye attentively on me

I fall on my knees beside it
and bite a mouthful of dirt
Nausea battles fear as I taste
the dead
snaking movement of earthworms
squirrel droppings
shards of broken glass
chipped roots
and varieties of poison
Dogs piss on top
women’s high heels poke through sharply
men pound heavily with their flat feet
cars and bicycles carry a dead weight

With a mouthful of dirt
I speak for the Earth
and myself when I say:
Fuck all this!


Those we love
walk in freely
through the gates
of our walled cities
They seem to carry
with them everything
These beautiful people
who make a pattern
all their own
in the fabric
that covers and drapes
our hiding place
Where they touch
the new growth begins
Where they rest
the new shape forms

But when they tear away
they take more than
what was theirs


I am a voice without a generation
The year of my birth has been lost
Those born around that time
have by now all been broken
in or up
Some tell me
how they nurse
one of the many crises
commonly associated with
money love lust
They smell like long years
of boredom

Meanwhile language has evolved
– speech is mostly noise
If only I could listen closer
there are howls and poems
powls and hoems..
All languages say the same
in sound bites of powls and hoems

My bones were broken many times
My back too
Finding a comfortable position
challenges my perception of Universe
and all knowledge
every time

I play musical chairs in all social situations
and usually leave with first empty trays
Often I rebel against small things
like institutions of happiness

Without a cause
Or a generation
I stand out sorely unnoticed

Two-Three Poems a Book

On Thursdays my baby and I
go to Kumon, her math class, and if
I am in the mood or on the edge –
she is a teenager and I worry about
money – I go to the bookstore three doors down
It is old-fashioned (without comfortable chairs)
and has a narrow shelf with poetry
There I look usually for Frank O’Hara or
Charles Bukowski, open randomly the volume
I’ve pulled out and start reading

Sometimes all I need is one poem
If I’m lucky I’ll spin the pages again
and find another. It is pure bliss to experience
the disengagement from reality the way
it happens to me with only a handful of words
But I rarely walk out with a purchase
It is not sustained therapy that I want

I notice then and dislike that poems are so tightly
packaged, like produce or window dressing
So neat and conventional they look laid out in their
idiosyncratic form I feel sympathy for the poets
whose royalties must have  grown
substantially since the days of their beginnings
and are now collected by relatives or
foundations when they toiled for years for this
If recognition came only in certain styles they
had no choice I suppose but posterity appears not worth it
the longer it goes on malleable and corruptible as it is

Right then the bliss I found earlier dissolves at the junction
of double s into something liquid, still manageable
but the moment is gone and I muse on new design
for books of poetry – two-three poems a book
and many empty pages between for breathing space
notes and messages
or drawings for those good with a pencil
Does anyone need more

A Match

Typical signaling on a civilized street involves long periods of fear and occasional if brief rush of hope. ‘Nada’ is the word for hope; ‘Strah” is for fear. The latter sounds like it could have been coined in Siberia. It was. Once you start consuming American pop culture daily, you quickly learn other meanings for ‘nada’. In the Old World as in New, hope is a chosen name for girls. Nada Knežević, hope with my last name, is one of the best jazz singers the old country has produced.

When my old boyfriend brought his new girlfriend with him long ago, her name too was Nada. I sat there, I remember, I was barely 25 and she no more than 17. I realized then that I was as far from hope as it was humanly possible. But I was still on my first quarter of the century then. It would take many a cruel sparring match between fear and hope in the years to come, with me the only one battered.

As I said, I was sitting there barely twenty five but feeling around hundred. Although it was ten years earlier when I turned 100 so by then I was hundred and ten in reality. By that age it is criminal not to have dispensed with hope. It shouldn’t have come as surprise then that hope sat out of my reach. And she was just a sly, conniving girl posturing and sticking her tongue out at me when he wasn’t looking.

Giving up on hope wasn’t that difficult – hope is for amateurs. My one true desire was magnanimous rule of the State of Fearless. Still is. But it never came to be. Fear never released its hold on me as if I were its one and only hope.


I have seen sunflowers grow
in unlikely places and I never
knew whether their seeds were
the favourite of birds everywhere
and it was through combination of avian
digestion and adaptability to varied soil
conditions that they graced soiled
walls, tall wired fences, humble breaks
in concrete, dusty spaces unused by profit
Or was it the human hands that brought
them to any patch of dirt to grow, to grow!

And grew they did, tall with large leaves as
wide palms of working men facing upward
their faces standing the test of passing fashions
as most beloved and beautiful icons of vitality

I admit my disbelief that I never saw anybody
claim them – the mad and the sad, or ordinary people
of every street – breaking down by their sturdy green
stalks just below the yellow-black faces as if
they were the signposts planned by the city for
everyone to tie one’s misery to

But nothing like that ever happened
And maybe I don’t see things correctly for people
and the little decency they still carry with them
know that these are but the bits of fairy tale stuff
dropped randomly across the wide urban desolation
Garbage, graffiti, pieces of rubber, cans, paper and
plastic all around is the gutter where you’d expect
to see magic visiting to cast a weak spell
or spring a root of hope


My father left a message one morning
in early March – they are all well, but there
is sad news: my best friend’s father had passed
that morning
Such unexpected show of tenderness:
one father bearing the news of the death
of another

I called my far away friend
and asked stupidly “how are you?”

I am a dragon, she said

Daughter of a mother dragon and father dragon,
what else could I be
You too are a dragon – as my friend
what else could you be
I said nothing

she mentioned that her former husband lost their son
The boy didn’t know yet
his grandfather was gone
carried out and away from the home he hadn’t
left in years. Nonetheless the boy took off evading
the news

I imagined the chase down the concrete
jungle and wide boulevards:
a nimble boy sprinting ahead
and the bad news following
puffing to catch up
unaccustomed to labouring

An hour later the superintendent came up to
remove water stains in the bathroom and
deliver a complaint
The new tenant below
is driven insane by us walking in high heels
she said
as if
this is a parlour where young girls
and their mothers
don miniskirts and flirt with drunken sailors
But everyone knows
we walk
in socked feet rather and
drunken sailors
don’t come up Yonge Street
this far

There is official letter in the office
two pages long
she said regretfully
She is obliged
to inform us

We may be evicted, I am guessing
but she hinted nothing
What does she do
I inquire –
our new neighbour
with sensitive ears
and poor insight
I don’t know, she said
she studies something or another
I suppose she doesn’t know yet
that one day she’ll die

Sympathy for the Devil

I am
an Emotional Invalid
A Warrior
of the Order of the Broken Hearts
A Veteran
of the Lost War

Chamber Piece

In the monster room
I am the monster in the room
In the room, monsters

Why I am Not a Poet

At 6, when I come awake, the night broods in stale blackness. Gone are the thrills of the fresh nightfall. Electric lights equal electric shock. Many months of treatment later, I am still not used to it. Freshly shocked, this is not the time for sensitivities. At 6:35 I stare at the elevator door already impatient. Once on board, my descent is paused just two floors down. A 20-year old ginger-head enters. Shoulders up to his ears, chin below his collar bone, hands clenched in his pockets, I have never seen eyes on him. Shaggy and miserable, his stance forbids seeing, but I look at him. A stench of rancid cooking oil wafts from his clothes. It describes his job at a fast food establishment. I feel like smacking him, every time. The elevator takes a long time to get going again. Slow to open its door, programmed to wait for passengers to board until it can safely close, eventually it continues its fall down the shaft. I am going to be late.

Worse than the smelly cook are the friendly morning faces, trained to please. Once in a while, we stop to pick one up. I have one myself. Awful stuff. We smile, wish good morning and the morning cracks, like an egg fallen on its head.

At 6:50 I am rushing to catch the bus at the terminal, my mouth open from running up double steps from the subway platform. I like that slithering run-up, the skilful avoiding of bodies coming down the stairs in a hurry. Slightly winded, it is the first moment I feel electric. I even smile, at no one, just smile.

The bus is neither dirty nor clean at that hour. It has the damp smell of a soggy cloth left behind. The rain this morning makes us all smell like wet trash. I never count the heads, but if the bus leaves with dozen passengers or less, I exhale with relief. With fewer people on board, it is less likely I will hear their music, or their voices and the bulk of their bodies will not obstruct my view. Most people could appreciate the common quietude of that hour, but further ahead, there are few women already chatting. A Chinese woman who occasionally boards the bus for a short ride irritates us all with her screeching voice yelling into her phone. When she exits at Mt. Pleasant, we all share the relief that none of us has become a murderer on such a dreary morning.

It will take half hour to my destination. I type with my thumbs a ‘good morning’ and ‘have a wonderful day’ message. Then I spend some time thinking how to say ‘ily’. I have gone through raindrops and stars, butterflies, sunrays, Universe, silly giggles, snowflakes, misty mornings, dew drops, sunny mornings, Mediterranean beach days, madeleines et macarons… all in millions in the preceding days. I am running out of ideas but want to make it meaningful every time. Sometimes I just say ‘I love you’.

The rest of the time I spend staring out the window. With only few heads onboard, nothing obstructs the view. I stare at shop signs and street lights. Above them, darkness persists. Thoughts are brief, inconsequential; I never remember them. They don’t fully form, my aborted thoughts. The consequence of fast track jobs and lives that service them is thinking fast and forgetting even faster. Chopped parsley – am I a vegetable or an herb? Still life certainly. I pick up few pieces carefully, attempt a cautious reconstruction, nothing matches. No resemblance. Where am I, I ask, looking at the bits of green. Where am I, I look out the window suddenly. It is all the same, even in the dark, but it is not. I run up to the driver and ask in disbelief – Did we pass Warden? We did, he smiles amused. How far, I look outside in the dark. He says, not far, just a little farther back. I step off the bus into the empty space of suburbia, where steps disappear like mice in fields of golden wheat. Except the field is black. It is a mild ante-day in January and I start walking back briskly. There is no one outside except for the people in cars but I can’t see them. The light will find its way over the flatlands. Engulfed by dark void, that thought brings relief. The air is fresh, I notice. I am enjoying the unexpected walk then I begin to laugh. I laugh and skip and raindrops fall on my soggy smelling face. It is wonderful, suddenly wonderful! I see a yellow light. It is the McDonald’s sign. So happy to see it, I am. Oh, I am indeed. Never mind all the rotten things I have said about the corporation before. (Not many, really). The arch of the glowing M guides me and so I end up inside the prison of my days. Where no one bars me from leaving. It is the economic sentence, to death, with a purgatory of pension and paid medical bills. Despite that solemnity, I, like everyone, do not think I will grow old and infirm. Such is the nature of nonsense we cultivate inside these prisms, our heads and other architecture.

Hierarchies are displayed for clear visibility. Hypocrisy shakes hands with everyone as always, never dishonest. The stress binds us all and draws near each other to uncomfortable proximity. Forced smiles, turned heads, habitual endurance. The Company is the Supreme Being in that careful entanglement, and we oblige, defer and lay down our offerings day in day out day in… It is where most days end up. Apart from that, I enjoy the process of sorting through problems. They suffer from poor management,  I see right away, but  I rarely feel clever these days, and these opportunities offer morally ambiguous alliance. I participate eagerly, is my demise. During lunch, I divide the half hour between eating a piece of bread, cheese and few grapes, with reading from a thin book. I reward myself with a thought of escape.

When it’s time to leave, I realize I’ve shrunk to a prune. Desiccated. There is a brief moment when I step out of the white box and take in the vast presence of the world outside. Outside is where I long to be. Not outdoors necessarily, but outside. Right across the wide street is the tall water tower. Incredibly white through dusty and smog-filled days it resembles a spaceship here on a mission. Seagulls fly in circles and hoops around it and I take note of the empty sky. How lovely. If I left early enough, I would see the end of daylight. The pause to admire the tower, its indifference and alien calm, takes a breath or two. Then I spring back to my swift walk up the concrete path to catch the bus home.

The bus in the afternoon has lost its morning smell. It sags with the load of people, skinny and overweight, young and old, quiet, tired – invariably someone is loud. The bus itself is loud. It is a long shift in the bus world and the engine and its parts breathe and gasp labouring day in day out day in… Sometimes we drive by one broken down by the side of the road. We pity the people who had to disembark and wait for the next ride. They are unwelcome by the people on the new bus. The new bus with its double load casts an envying glance at the one standing still, the sparse blades of pale grass grazing its thick tires and low stoop. But in reality, grass is further afield, and the bus is slouching on concrete poked with holes.

On I ride along with the other folk, my head bobbing up and down, and falling down occasionally as I doze off. It usually happens half way through. When we reach the end stop, my head is murky and I can barely stand up, forced out of slumber for the second time that day.

Once in our neghbourhood, I drop by the grocery store and shortly after leave with bags of fruit and vegetables. In the worst of times, as in best, we always eat healthy. Chopped parsley and prune salad is on the menu day in day out made fresh to order. I will add spinach, broccoli and tomatoes as variations.

At home, sweet kisses of a teenager and her lively smile greet me. By the end of the evening we would have shared few more sweet moments, and likely an argument. Occasionally we skip the argument, but sweet moments never fail. How fortunate I am will perhaps cross my mind; often it doesn’t.(‘How miserable’ usually finds its way in). By that hour my mind is very tired and generally numb. The numbness begins to thaw only after I have made dinner, cleaned up and prepared lunches for the next day. By then it is too late. Numb is in fact better than alert as I need to get to bed soon after. I sit down with my work done.  A rare moment of introspection, and nothing to reward it with. I am thoroughly emptied.

Everything written in this blog and its pages, unless clearly stated otherwise, is the intellectual and moral property of Knez a.k.a. Ivana Knez a.k.a Ivana Knežević

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