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The book of poems by Irena Skopljak Barić Moja begins unexpectedly with its ending, a decisive point that is a conclusion, appropriation and dedication, but shares them equally with others, "with my own".
This is a collection in which the city becomes an interlocutor, a space whose streets, parks and courtyards become places of encounter (with oneself).
Writing in the first person singular, Stojić depicted the life and dreams, experience and fate, defeat and loss of homeland of a generation, a city, an era.
The following pages are torn from the book of the people's revolution. From the book? No, from the womb, from the veins, from the bloodstream, from the roots of life. They are the history of love.